


trap you in a song

by wardrobespierre



Series: Trap You In A Song [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hipsters, I'm really bad at tags I'm sorry, M/M, Multi, Non-binary!Jehan, Self harm reference, Slam Poetry AU, Swearing, Trans Characters, the smut is in chapter 8 by the way, trans!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 67,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardrobespierre/pseuds/wardrobespierre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every week the Cafe Musain hosts a slam poetry open mic night, MC’d by Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "What the fuck is with the clicking..."

**Author's Note:**

> God knows nobody asked for this but the idea got stuck in my head and I just couldn't shake it?! 
> 
> Disclaimer; obviously none of the characters are mine. I just love them. Obsessively. Also 'Voices in the Attic' is an actual regular thing that happens, in Melbourne. I have friends that perform there and they inspire me and also I'm really unoriginal and can't think of good names for things. Title is from the song 'Take it Easy (Love Nothing)' by Bright Eyes. 
> 
> Any obvious Melbourne-isms in this fic are not intentional and I'm really sorry, I've never lived in another city, let alone been to France at all :o
> 
> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand this is my first fanfiction I've ever written ever ever ever so please leave me feedback and constrictive criticism, it will make me a better person <3
> 
> Trigger warning for references to alcoholism and self harm in this chapter.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this, Jehan.”

“Don’t be such a killjoy, darling, you’ll like it, I promise.”

 

 

The pair ascended the steps to the tucked-away attic bar, arm-in-arm. Jehan Prouvaire was a tall, thin person of undefinable gender, their voice too low to be female, too gentle to be male. Their smiles were soft and shy, their strawberry blonde plait messy and theirhand-knitted sweater too big and rather lumpy - but their eyes were green as a fresh lime and twice as sharp. Those eyes drank in the world greedily and without fear, and whatever a man may assume from their clothes and awkward gait, once you have met those eyes you know, you cannot fail to see, that one must never underestimate Jehan Prouvaire.   
Their friend was shorter than they, and walked with more grace, but less confidence. Here was a man who could see no place for himself in this world and was quite accustomed to that. His home was in front of a canvas, gripped by the trance of inspiration and Joy Division, time fading into insignificance as he forgot food and rest in favor of his work - until his muse inevitably left him, and he remembered who he was, or rather, who he wasn’t. These mad bursts of productivity were inevitably followed by several days (even, on one awful occasion, weeks) of self-destruction, in which the man chased oblivion to the bottom of bottles, laughed too loudly and spoke too brashly and found bittersweet comfort in making strangers hate him as much as he hated himself. He was riding the edge of such a depression now, dark curls and shadowy face flecked with colors from that very afternoon, a vivid smudge of yellow across his slightly crooked nose, though he _had_ changed his clothes at Jehan’s insistence. His name was Grantaire, and he was Jehan’s dearest friend. 

Tonight at the Cafe Musain was the weekly Voices In The Attic, a slam poetry open-mic that hosted Jehan’s first ever reading, almost two years ago at it’s first ever event. It didn’t matter that Jehan’s poetry career had blossomed in the time since then, that they now travelled all over the country hosting workshops and performing at festivals, advising education departments and representing the Arts and the LGBTQ community simultaneously; Voices was their home. “A tree can’t grow without roots,” they would say with a smile, and Grantaire would roll his eyes and shake his head because they weren’t fucking _trees_ , but he’d smile back because Jehan was everything good and beautiful in his life, and Jehan went back week after week, and never made Grantaire go with them - until tonight. 

Jehan had called him by chance as Grantaire sat in the corner, glaring at his latest not-quite-finished painting, fighting the urge to take a knife from the kitchen and slash it, fighting the urge to slash _himself,_ fighting the urge to drink the mouthwash in his bathroom because Eponine had poured his liquor stash down the sink three days before. He hadn’t cared at the time, high on colors and composition - he cared very, very much now. 

“Jehan,” he had answered, his voice gravelly from disuse and dehydration. “You’re back already.”

Jehan’s sigh of distress was tiny, only just audible over the phone. “Touched down an hour ago. You don’t sound too good, R.”

“I sound better than I feel,” Grantaire laughed bitterly, but the knot in his chest was already loosening at hearing his friend’s voice. “This fucking painting, I can’t... I can’t finish it.”

“Okay. It’s okay, darling. Are you home?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No. Ep threw out my booze.”

“Okay. Good. How long were you working?”

“Um.” Grantaire had to think about that one. “I think I started at like, three am this morning. I think it was this morning. I had an interesting dream, and I woke up and had to paint it... but now it’s gone.”

“It’s almost five pm now love, did you eat at all today?”

“No,” he confessed. “But I did eat last night.” He felt guilty. He felt awful. Jehan had been so busy lately, they must be tired, they must have about a million things they’d rather do than worry about Grantaire, and yet here they were, endless patience and kindness that made him want to cry. He wished it was Eponine on the phone right now, Eponine who would tell him straight that he was being fucking pathetic, that he was a grown-ass man for god’s sakes, get the fuck up and take a fucking shower and eat some dinner like a functional human fucking being. 

“Let me take you out for dinner.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my friend and I missed you, ‘Aire,” Jehan told him gently. “And it’s about time we did something fun. You finished that commission on Sunday, didn’t you? Ep told me. She said it looked amazing. Let’s celebrate that.”

The corners of Grantaire’s mouth twitched. “Jehan...”

“Please, R, come on. Let’s eat tapas and drink cocktails and be disgustingly bourgeois.”

“Ugh...”

“Or we’ll go to that hippy joint you like, the one you did a mural for, you know.”

Grantaire sighed. “Just you and me?”

“Well...”

“Jehan...”

“Voices is on tonight.”

“Oh. We can get dinner some other time.”

“No, honey, I want to see you tonight! And... I was hoping you might come, this time.”

“Jehan, we’ve been through this.” Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose. “I love you, and I love your poems, but I do not love those pretentious rich-boy Ginsberg-wannabes your poetry nights are always crawling with. With their stupid goddamn glasses they don’t even need and their fucking _clicking_ , what the fuck is with the clicking...”

“R, you came to _one_ reading. _One._ And it wasn’t Voices. Voices is different, it’s raw and vulnerable and honest.”  
“No. No, _you_ are honest. It doesn’t mean anyone else in that room is anything like what they’re pretending to be. No, god, Jehan, it’s not my scene, it’s not.”

Jehan sighed again, this one exasperated. “Why do you hate everyone, R?”

“I don’t hate you, sweetheart. I used up all my love on you and now there’s none left for anyone else.” Grantaire is smiling now, despite himself, and he can hear Jehan’s smile in their voice as they answer.

“What about ‘Ponine?”

“Fuck ‘Ponine. She tossed my whiskey.”

“Come to Voices.”

“No-o-o, Jehan.”

“Ye-e-e-es, Granta-a-i-re.”

“Ugh...”

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour, okay?”

“Fuck... fine.”

And that was that. Jehan had arrived, scolded Grantaire for his ratty jeans and faded t-shirt until he put on a crisp green button-up and jeans too new and too fitted to be comfortable, and they had climbed onto Jehan’s yellow Vespa and sped away towards the city lights. 

The scooter ride, dinner, and Jehan’s sweet smiles and sharp wit had gone a long way to cheering Grantaire up, he had actually felt human again, before they arrived at the Musain. Now dread settled in his stomach - he would hate everyone there, he knew, and he wouldn’t be able to show it lest he embarrass Jehan. He would have to pretend, plaster on a fake smile and act all friendly and interested while these awful goddamn hipsters prattle about bands that no-one’s heard of or boutique breweries or whatever those pretentious fucks like to talk about. 

At the top of the stairs he paused, eyes narrowed as he surveys the dimly-lit bar. It was small, and furnished haphazardly with couches, armchairs and tables that looked like they’d been scrounged from garage sales and hard rubbish, hardly anything newer than twenty years old. A small band played on the small stage in the corner, a pretty, dark-haired woman with almond-shaped eyes crooning into the microphone while little groups of people chatted and drank and laughed, sitting and standing and leaning on the bar. The woman behind the bar, a tall twenty-something with a haughty expression, raised a hand to them as they entered. 

“Jehan, good to see you babe,” she called, with the air of a queen welcoming a foreign dignitary to her court. 

Jehan blew a kiss back as a group near the window turned as one man upon hearing the greeting. 

“Jehan!!”

They were waving. Grantaire spotted Eponine in the group in her usual patched denim vest and heavy boots, looking absolutely astonished to see him, but everyone else’s attention was on Jehan, including - jesus _fuck,_ Grantaire must be dreaming, or high, or something, because there was no way theangelic-looking blond next to Ep was fucking real. 

“Come on,” Jehan was murmuring, taking his hand. “Come and meet everyone.”

“Jehan, did you bribe that grumpy fucker with sexual favors to make him leave the house?” Eponine demanded, shouldering her way to the front of the group to sweep both of them into a hug.

“And much more besides, darling,” Jehan giggled, winking at Grantaire, who shook his head. 

“Seriously, it’s great to see you,” Eponine said in his ear before planting a kiss on his cheek and letting him go. Jehan was already bestowing cheek-kisses on the rest of the group, exchanging smiling _hellos,_ pausing to cup that blond vision’s cheek in their thin hand reverently. Grantaire felt sick. 

“Everyone,” Jehan said loudly, turning away from their friends to put their arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. “This is Grantaire, and he’s my dearest, most beloved friend.”

Grantaire smiled wryly and gave a mock-salute, determinedly avoiding any of their eyes. “Call me R.”

The blond’s lips twitched and the man next to him laughed, drawing Grantaire’s attention. He was wearing a bow-tie. An honest to god purple bow tie, AND it looked like a real one that he’d tied himself. And it was a testament to the man’s smile that it was warm and wide and charming enough to draw Grantaire’s attention away from that and to his face so that he could smile back. “That’s clever,” he said, extending his hand to shake Grantaire’s. “I’m Courfeyrac.” 

“I’m Combeferre.” The tall, bespectacled man on Courfeyrac’s other side reached to shake his hand too, his smile gentler but somehow no less warm than Courfeyrac’s. 

“Marius,” piped up a gangly young man - not an inch of his pale skin free of freckles, and a smile just as wide and friendly as Courfeyrac’s, though it sat on his cheeks awkwardly, as though his face was simply too small for it. Grantaire almost forewent the handshake in favor of ruffling his hair, he was so endearing. 

And then the blond spoke, and Grantaire felt his heart stutter in his chest. “I’m Enjolras.” His voice was clear, and somehow musical. His hand felt small in Grantaire’s as he took it, and when he met his ice-blue eyes he felt suddenly terribly exposed, as though Enjolras could read all the sins and secrets of his soul. His delicate lips lifted in a half-smile. 

Grantaire cleared his throat, forcing himself to let go of that hand. “Nice to meet you all,” he said gruffly, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying to look as though his stomach wasn’t turning somersaults. “Are you all poets too?”

They were, or at least they were on Thursdays. All four of them were students at the same university and belonged to the same social justice club, of which Enjolras was president. Poetry was a catharsis for them, a way of venting their fury at the world so that they can focus better on fixing it. Grantaire tried not to laugh bitterly as Enjolras and Courfeyrac enthused about the success of their bake sale - apparently success is measured in the amount of straight white male students who accused them of discrimination because the price of cupcakes directly reflected the wage gaps between genders and races - and about their latest campaign to have unisex bathrooms built on campus. _They truly think they can make a difference,_ he thought wonderingly. _I don’t want to see the looks on their faces when they realize they can’t._

“And you, R? What do you do?” Combeferre asked when Courfeyrac stopped for breath.

“Me? Oh. Not much. Um, I paint.”

“R is an incredibly talented artist,” Jehan said proudly, slipping their arm around his shoulders again. “He’s working on a series for an exhibition next month, actually.”

Grantaire felt himself flush as the eyes of the group turned to him. 

“What’s the focus of your work?” Enjolras asked, and, God, he sounded so _interested._

“Uhm. I don’t know, it changes a bit. A few months back I did a series of homeless people. I just get ideas and run with them, you know?” He shrugged, hoping they’d drop it. No such luck.

“The homelessness series was brilliant, actually. R managed to paint them so they looked like ghosts, you could sort of see the background through them, but they were still there in perfect detail. It was very poignant.” Jehan smiled at Grantaire’s obvious discomfort. “He’s terribly modest, of course, but you should see his work. He makes the most painful things so beautiful that you can’t bear to look away.”

“Jehan...”

“Alright, darling, I’m sorry.” They’re not, though, they’re laughing that musical little laugh and ruffling his hair. 

“We should get started,” Enjolras says suddenly. “Ferre, is everything set up?” 

“It is.”

“Great.” And Enjolras swept towards the little stage with more grace than anyone on earth should possess. 

 

The reading was a very relaxed affair. People drifted over, drinks in hand, as Enjolras welcomed everyone, smiling serenely now. When the couches and armchairs were full, people sat on the floor or leaned on the bar. Everything felt so very comfortable and peaceful. Grantaire loved it and hated it, and swallowed around a lump in his throat when Jehan pressed a cold beer into his hand and perched on his lap. The mood of the room ebbed and flowed with whatever poem was being spoken - Courfeyrac had them smiling and chuckling under their breath, Marius had their hearts aching for lost innocence, Eponine had their blood boiling with impotent rage - Grantaire even caught himself _clicking_ during hers, what the fuck - and Combeferre left them thoughtful, some of them clearly still trying to process his use of metaphor, some of them nodding as though they understood perfectly. Grantaire internally decided that those people were wankers - except for Jehan, who had probably taught Combeferre half those metaphors in the first place. 

Jehan blushes and glows when Enjolras introduces them with pride and affection clear in his tone, and Grantaire smiles as his friend shuffles their way to the front, clutching their beloved notebook. 

A clatter and a thump and a muffled “Ow, fuck” from the stairs makes them pause in front of the microphone. 

“Fuck’s sake, Boussett,” a voice chuckles, and four men emerge into the room; a broad-shouldered, muscular man that Grantaire recognises as Bahorel, his sparring partner and occasional drinking buddy, followed by a redhaired man almost as freckled as Marius with a too-big green overcoat and a carefully curled mustache, and a thin man who looked like he was drowning in his oversized sweater and thick scarf pulling a bald man by the hand. The bald man was rubbing his knee and smiling ruefully at the eyes that had turned to him - his friends looked as though they were trying not to laugh. 

“Are you okay, Boussett?” Jehan asked into the microphone, half teasing, half genuine concern, and a ripple of laughter ran around the room. 

“I’m fine! I’m fine, sorry everyone,” Boussett laughed, slipping his arm around the man in the scarf, who planted a kiss on his head. Grantaire smiled to see that the bartender’s haughty demeanor had slipped and her shoulders were shaking with silent giggles. 

Bahorel and the redhead leaned on the wall by the stairs and Boussett and his boyfriend slipped through the crowd towards the bar, trying to be unobtrusive - and that’s when Grantaire noticed that Jehan looked suddenly very nervous. Their ears had turned bright pink and they were fiddling with the sleeve of their sweater, looking at the crowd through their long, pale eyelashes, particularly at - Grantaire turned. Jehan was looking at the redhaired newcomer, who in turn was watching Jehan with his head on one side and his lower lip between his teeth. _Oh, Christ on a bike._ Grantaire could have laughed out loud - of _course_ Jehan’s type would be that pretentious goddamn mustache. _Of course._

But Jehan took a deep breath, squared their little shoulders and the moment passed. “This one’s called ‘Above the Rain’ and I wrote it today, on the plane back to all you lovely people.”

 

 


	2. a great night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly lives a little, Jehan is smitten and Enjolras makes one thing absolutely clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO FRIENDS! Thankyou for everyone who has left comments and kudos so far, it means SO MUCH. This chapter was hard, cuz there's a lot going on, emotions are running high and there's a gazillion pov changes, but i think i'm okay with it now!! Un-beta'd, so it might be a bit of a mess. Please let me know what you think, constructive criticism is very helpful!!
> 
> trigger warnings for mentions of violence and transphobia in this chapter.

Feuilly was having a great night. 

 

Joly had approached him today, on their respective lunch breaks at the Shelter while Feuilly tucked into his bag of home-made sandwiches, taking the seat opposite Feuilly’s desk and propping his long legs up behind the computer with a grin.

“The fuck are you eating?” Feuilly had asked around a mouthful of ham and cheese when Joly popped the top of a tupperware container to reveal something very green and very leafy.

“Kale.” Joly stuffed a leaf in his mouth with relish. “It’s a superfood.”

Feuilly groaned. “You still doing that raw vegan thing?”

“I feel like a new man.” Joly raised his eyebrows at Feuilly and fished out a carrot stick. “You should try it.”

“It’s been two days.”

“Works fast, my friend.”

“Last week you fainted thanks to that goddamn juice detox thing and we had to rush you to TGI Fridays.” 

“And now my arteries are choking to death on curly fries and buffalo wings and I have to fix them.” Joly brandished a leaf at him accusingly. “With _kale._ ”

Feuilly rolled his eyes. 

“As much as I’d like to lecture you on the harmful effects of wheat and preservative-filled smallgoods -” Joly shot Feuilly’s sandwich a dirty look, “- I actually have something to ask you.”

“Mhmm?” Feuilly took a large, deliberate bite.

“Still working at that restaurant?”

“Yeah man.” Feuilly swallowed and leaned back on his desk chair. “Fuck, I was there till half one last night. Had to walk home because I missed the last train.” He ran a hand through his hair, pulling strands loose from his ponytail. “Needed three coffees just to get dressed this morning, swear to god.”

“Coffee is poison,” Joly sing-songed, shaking a finger at his friend. Feuilly glared and Joly sobered. “They pay you ten dollars an hour and treat you like crap. Have you thought of leaving?”

“I can’t do that, Joly.” Feuilly shook his head. “Ten dollars an hour is still ten dollars an hour. It’s hard, but I can handle it. I only get paid for like, two days work here. The rest is volunteer because LaMarque needs me.”

“If he needs you so bad he should pay you properly,” Joly sighed, with the air of one repeating a long-exhausted argument.

“You know he can’t. And it’s not even for LaMarque.” Feuilly smiled sadly. “The kids need me. I can’t be here any less than I am, the place would fall apart, but I just have to make that up with shitty two-bit jobs on the side. Once we get the funding we need, LaMarque can pay me full time and I can ditch that shit.” His smile turned hopeful and Joly’s heart swelled for his friend. 

“You know, half of them aren’t even kids,” Joly corrected half-heartedly. “Just because you practically adopt all of them. You make it hard for them to leave.” He was joking, of course, but Feuilly’s face fell. 

“Do I really?”

“Oh, don’t look like that, it’s not your fault no one who meets you can bear to part with you. Accept your crippling loveableness, my friend.”

Feuilly’s face lit up again. “Such a charmer, Joly. Bousset and Musichetta are lucky to have you.”

“ _Speaking_ of Musichetta,” Joly took his feet off the desk and sits up, leaning towards Feuilly intently. “Apparently she’s convinced her mum to let her hire another bartender.”

Feuilly raised his eyebrows as Joly continued.

“Cause her mum’s hip is getting bad so she can’t be on her feet too much now, you know, so it’s pretty much just Chetta pulling pints and she needs days off. Not everyone is fucking superman.” He paused to level a finger at Feuilly, who snorted. “What she needs is an experienced bartender with a good work ethic, who’s good with people and dresses like the filthiest of hipsters.”

Feuilly’s eyes widened. “ _Me??”_

“Who else?” Joly grinned, leaning back on his chair. “Chetta asked specifically, she said ‘what’s Feuilly doing these days? Would he want to do a few nights?’ And you know they’d pay you properly, and they wouldn’t make you close up every damn night.”

“Dude,” Feuilly breathed. “Hell _yes._ ” 

“Good. She’s there tonight, and they’re doing that poetry thing there, which is always a good scene. How about we go get some dinner when we finish up here, and then we’ll go round there, you can have a chat to her and then we’ll have some drinks to celebrate?”

“I’m meant to be at the restaurant tonight,” Feuilly hesitates.

“Call them up right fucking now and tell them you quit. Do it. _Do. It._ The job at the Musain is yours and you deserve a night off.”

“Uhhh...”

“How many times do you live, Feuilly? Once. You live _once._ Well, unless you’re Buddhist or something. Which you’re not. So quit your shitty slave labor job and get drunk with us tonight. Doctor’s orders.” He winked and stuffed another handful of kale in his mouth as though that settled it.

Which, Feuilly supposed, it rather did.

“For someone who harps on about coffee and wheat and fucking toothpaste being poison, you sure do love your drunken weeknights,” Feuilly pointed out as he dialled the restaraunt.

Joly’s grin was so disgustingly smug that Feuilly didn’t have the heart to tell him he had bits of green in his teeth. 

 

Joly had all but dragged him out the door as soon as the clock struck six, shouting their goodbyes to the residents and volunteers, to find Joly’s boyfriend Bousset and their friend Bahorel waiting for them on the hood of Bahorel’s beat-up stationwagon out the front. Feuilly had only met Bahorel all of twice, but both occasions were extremely memorable, and the wide grin on the giant’s face promised more of the same. 

“C’mere, Ginger,” he boomed, standing up and spreading his arms wide.

“Oh, not _this_ fucker,” Feuilly laughed before allowing himself to be swept into a bone-crushing hug, and squawking when Bahorel lifted him off his feet. 

Joly ignored them completely in favor of taking Bousset’s face in both his hands and placing a loud kiss on his lips. 

“Oh no. None of that adorable bullshit,” Bahorel scolded them as he returned Feuilly to solid ground. “If you two are going to make out all night I’ll be forced to snog the Ginge, and I don’t like this fucking furry monstrosity he’s trying to pull off. Don’t make me do it.”

“Fuck off, it’s fucking majestic,” Feuilly retorted, absent-mindedly punching at his shoulder and actually connecting somewhere just above his elbow. 

Joly stuck his tongue out at Bahorel and his hand in Bousset’s back pocket, and Bousset honest-to-god _giggled._

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, bro,” he teased, detatching himself from Joly to hug Feuilly, less violently than Bahorel had, thankfully. “How are you doing, Fe?”

“I’m actually doing great, now,” Feuilly replied, grinning. “I’ll be even better when I’ve talked to Musichetta and had a beer or six.”

“Dinner first,” Bahorel ordered. “Get in. I know a place.”

Two hours later, after the best woodfire pizzas Feuilly has ever tasted (and a salad for Joly), the four of them trooped through alleyways and side-streets, teasing and loud laughter fueled by the bottle of wine that the owners of the restaurant had insisted was ‘on the house’ - apparently Bahorel had known the young couple for years and had spent weeks helping them transform the run-down milk bar they’d bought into the warm, colorful little pizzeria that now thrived. Joly had shushed them as they ascended the stairs to the Musain - “That poetry thing started like half an hour ago, shhhh!” - and of _course_ Bousset had tripped, drawing the eyes of the silent room to the entrance, including those of the person on stage. 

The urge to laugh faded abruptly as Feuilly met those eyes, vivid green even from across the dimly-lit room. She- no, he- fuck, _they_ were _gorgeous_ , slender and almost fragile-looking, their long plait over their shoulder and stray curls framing their face, an uncertain edge to their smile under Feuilly’s stare.

“Fuck,” Feuilly breathed, almost involuntarily, and the figure ducked their head almost as if they’d heard him. 

“C’mere,” Bahorel whispered, tugging Feuilly’s sleeve and leading him to lean against the wall. They had a great view from here of the poet looking rather flustered, and Feuilly bit down on his lip to stay focused because _he’s never seen anything so adorable,_ but then they spoke, and focus was never really an option, was it?

Feuilly was ashamed to say, afterwards, that he didn’t have a clue what Jehan had actually said. He couldn’t possibly tell you what the poem was about, but he could tell you that that voice, that breathy, ethereal voice had carried his minds eye through misery, despair, darkness and cold that made him shiver to chaos and fear and then to safety and light like breaking through the surface after being underwater. And his heart had soared and he felt like he was vibrating out of his skin as Jehan raised their hands to the heavens as though they were lifting the souls of the room with their voice, and no one clicked, not one person dared to move a muscle to break that spell until Jehan was silent, their arms dropped back to their sides and they smiled and dropped a shy little curtsy. 

“Fuck,” Feuilly murmured again, before remembering how to use his hands and clapping frantically. Bahorel chuckled.

“That kid is off the fucking planet, I swear.”

“They’re amazing.” 

Bahorel turned at his reverent tone. “Do you want me to introduce you?”

“Yes. God, yes please. But - no, I have to talk to Musichetta.”

“Don’t worry, Ginge, they’ll be here all night. Loves a drink, our Jehan.” Bahorel grinned and clapped his hand on Feuilly’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s get you that job.”

Feuilly chanced another glance at the poet - _Jehan_ \- before they moved towards the bar. They were sitting on the lap of a man with wild dark curls, hiding their face in their sleeve as the man laughingly tried to prise their arm away. Feuilly tried to ignore the cold rush of disappointment, squaring his shoulders and marching after Bahorel with his most winning smile in place.

Musichetta was kissing Joly over the bar as they approached, with her fingers tangled in his hair as Bousset looked on adoringly. 

“Jesus christ,” Bahorel grumbled, leaning on the bar next to Joly. “I’ll kiss the Ginger. I’ll fuckin do it and it won’t be pretty and you’ll all be sorry.”

Musichetta drew back a bare inch and pressed her forehead to Joly’s. The man looked absolutely blissed out. “Shut it, Tiny,” she shot back without looking at him. “Feuilly’s out of your league, anyway.”

“Wha-” Bahorel whipped around to Feuilly, looking mortally offended. “I could pull Feuilly! Tell her, Ginge. You’d go me, right?”

“You’re straight as fuck, mate,” Feuilly laughed.

“But if I weren’t?!”

“How do I put this... I usually go for guys that _don’t_ look like they could throw me the length of a football field.” Feuilly clapped Bahorel on the shoulder as the giant put a hand over his heart and pouted. 

“Didn’t you have a date, like, yesterday, Bahorel?” Bousset asked and Bahorel grinned.

“Oh, man, she was great. She’s works in some goddamn office, IT or something, at the desk all day, you know - meets me at the bar in this slick little skirt and blazer, then goes to the bathroom and comes out in jeans and a Dead Weather t-shirt.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head fondly at the memory. “Three drinks later she says ‘Let’s break into that old church down the road.’ We spent the rest of the night screwing in the belltower.”

Musichetta whistled, finally drawing away from Joly. “Oh, man, that is a fuckin _good_ date. Why don’t you two ever screw me in a belltower?” She looked accusingly at Joly and Boussuet, who look at each other in horror. “Oh, nevermind.” She lined up five shot glasses and threw Feuilly a rare, charming smile. “So, Feuilly.” She turned and reached for the bottle of Grey Goose, high on the shelf. Her boyfriends stared shamelessly as her dress rode up her thighs. “Joly told you we need another bartender, yeah?”

“Yeah, your mum’s hip...”

“That, and I’m going back to uni soon.” She turned to face them again, bottle in hand.

“He didn’t mention that.” Feuilly grinned. “Finishing that psych degree?”

“Yeah. Gonna go the whole nine yards and do my Phd, too.” She poured the shots with a practised hand, and if you didn’t know Musichetta you’d have missed the twitch at the corner of her mouth, betraying her excitement and pride. Feuilly didn’t miss it.

“Congratulations.”

“I haven’t finished it yet.” She shot him an appreciative glance, though, before handing him a shot. “So. When can you start?”

“When do you want me?”  
“How’s Sunday? I can show you the ropes, we’ll talk about hours then.”

“Sounds great.”

“Done.” Musichetta raised her own glass. “To new chapters, then. On three, boys!”

 

 

“Do you know the one with the mustache??”

“No, just Bahorel.”

“ _Everyone_ knows Bahorel, ‘Taire. I want to know who his _friend_ is.”

Courfeyrac leaned towards them conspiratorially, having obviously been listening. “I’ve met him. His name’s Feuilly, he doesn’t come often and I’ve never seen him at Voices before, but he’s always with those guys, and he’s really charming.” He smiled encouragingly at Jehan. “And I’m about ninety-six per cent sure he’s single.”

“Who’s single?” Combeferre leaned around from Courfeyrac’s other side.

“Not you,” Courfeyrac said smugly, leaning back against his shoulder. Combeferre smiled indulgently and slipped an arm around the smaller man’s waist.

“Are you talking about Feuilly?” he asked Jehan.

“Fe-ui-lly,” Jehan sighed, drawing the name out until it sounded like a prayer. “With the pretty, pretty mustache.”

“He’s honestly one of the best men I’ve ever met in my life,” Combeferre said seriously. “He volunteers at the LGBTQ youth shelter with Joly - but he’s there almost every day. And then he waits tables every night. I think that’s why he’s single. It’s always a surprise to see him here, he works more than any human being should.” Combeferre shook his head wonderingly. “And you’d think, someone who works that hard would be tired and impatient and generally fed up, but -” he waved a hand at the bar, where Feuilly was laughing as he let Bousset re-curl the ends of his mustache. Jehan sighed again.

“Enjolras practically worships him,” Courfeyrac stage-whispered, grinning impishly. “We all thought they were going to hook up, for a little bit, but...” he broke off with a shrug. Enjolras, deep in conversation with Eponine and Marius on the next couch, gave no indication he’d heard. Grantaire shook himself internally at the weight that settled in his stomach.

“Come on,” he said bracingly, bouncing Jehan on his knee. “Lets go and say hi.”

“Oh god, no-o-o, I couldn’t -”

“Jehan Prouvaire, if you think you can drag me out of my nice, quiet apartment and then not even let me wing-man you with the mustached man of your dreams, you have another thing coming.”

 

 

Enjolras extracted himself from his coversation with Marius and Eponine when the topic turned from women’s self defense classes Eponine had started to the multiple times she had saved Marius from bar fights. For reasons no one could quite understand, sweet, slightly goofy Marius was like a magnet for trouble in the bigger, more well-known bars and clubs they occasionally visit, and even on the streets; luckily for him, Eponine was never far away. 

He drifted towards the balcony to find his friends sitting around one of the tables there - where it appeared that Grantaire was holding court, telling a story that had Joly, Bousset, Bahorel and Courfeyrac in stitches. Feuilly and Combeferre were deep in conversation slightly off to the side, and Jehan was sitting on the table, engaged in braiding Feuilly’s rusty hair, loosened from his ponytail. Enjolras smiled slightly. They made a beautiful pair, and he could feel the electricity between them from here. He was glad, he really was; for a while he had thought he was in love with Feuilly, and who knows, maybe he had been - but he had never been the type to keep his feelings hidden long, and Feuilly wasn’t the type to lead someone on.

_“You’re gorgeous, Enj, and I have so much respect for you, anyone would be lucky to have you, but... we’re better off as friends, sweetheart.”_

And seeing him now with Jehan, Enjolras could see exactly why.

Not wanting to intrude, he slipped into the seat next to Grantaire, who stopped abruptly halfway through what had been a promising story about Eponine and the curator at his last exhibition and looked at Enjolras like a rabbit caught in the headlights. 

“Can I sit here?” Enjolras asked belatedly, thrown off guard and slightly freaked out by Grantaire’s reaction. 

“Of course,” Courfeyrac cried. “R, tell Enjolras the story too.”

“Right.” Grantaire appeared to give himself a little shake. “So this guy, like, imagine the most pretentious, superior douchebag you can, and times that by about six...”

 

 

“...and it gets to like, the eighth comment on her dress, and now, at first he was like ‘the Macklemore lifestyle isn’t meant to be taken that seriously, honey’ but by this time he’s practically telling her she looks like a trashbag whore, right, so Eponine, she just smiles at him, says ‘excuse me one moment, won’t you?’ goes to the table, picks up a plate of paté or some shit, walks back _calm as you please_ and literally picks the thing up and _smears it-_ ” Grantaire breaks off, giggling breathlessly. “ _Smears_ it all on his face and down his stupid white suit. And then she shrugs, and says ‘oops’!” 

Jehan looks over, distracted by the loud laughter on the other side of the table. Courfeyrac is slumped over, his face in his arm and his shoulders shaking uncontrollably; Bahorel is roaring with his head thrown back; Bousset is gasping for breath while he rub’s Joly’s back, who is giggling hysterically through hiccups. Grantaire himself is wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, and Enjolras - Jehan doesn’t think they’ve _ever_ seen Enjolras laugh that hard. He’s clutching his sides and almost sobbing his laughter, gasping “Oh my god, oh my fucking god, only _Eponine-”_ and Grantaire turns to him, his laughter fading to something softer, something somehow happier. A slow smile spreads across Jehan’s face as they turn back to immerse themselves in Feuilly’s beautiful hair again. 

 

“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire in surprise. They’d drifted away from the group slightly when Grantaire stood up to have a cigarette, and Enjolras had found himself asking if he could have one. It hadn’t taken long for Enjolras to start talking about politics, shaking his proverbial fist at the system while Grantaire listened in silence until Enjolras paused to take a swig of beer.

“Tired of what?” Enjolras narrows his eyes.

“Fighting a battle you can’t win.” Grantaire isn’t looking at him. He’s looking down into the street below.

Enjolras straightens, an unpleasant heat rising in his chest. “What _exactly_ are you referring to?”

Grantaire sighs and looks up at him, the sadness in his eyes clashing unpleasantly with the sarcastic twist of his mouth. “What _exactly_ makes you think that anything you do, _anything,_ will make one single shred of difference?”

“It does,” Enjolras answers immediately. “We _have_ made differences, we _are_ making differences, it only takes _one person-”_

“What bullshit.” Grantaire barks a harsh, mirthless laugh. “Listen, kiddo-” Enjolras bristles at the term and Grantaire pretends the fire in his eyes doesn’t thrill him. “Each and every asshole in the world is out for himself and nobody else. It doesn’t matter how loud you shout -” _how pretty you are -_ “Nobody gives a fuck. The sooner you accept it the better off you’ll be.”

“What about you?” Enjolras asks coldly. “Are you only out for yourself?”

Grantaire turns around to face him, smirking. “Who else would I be out for?”

“Jehan.”

Grantaire’s smirk fades. Images flash through his mind, quick and dizzying - _the day Jehan wore a dress to school - finding them bruised and bloody behind the gym before classes even started - Jehan sobbing uncontrollably when the school nurse handed them a pair of slacks._ “What about Jehan?” he asks coldly, avoiding Enjolras’s eyes.

“Are you stupid?” Enjolras looks disgusted. “If it wasn’t for the actions of _individuals_ , do you think Jehan could even be _out_ without risking their life, let alone be respected as a valuable member of the arts community as they are?”

“They _do_ risk their life,” Grantaire hisses. “And if you think I don’t think about that every damn day -” he breaks off, shaking his head. 

“See? You care.” Enjolras looks smug, and Grantaire sees red.

“What the _fuck_ do you know about it?” He jabs a finger at Enjolras’s chest. “When was the last time you faced discrimination, Apollo? When was the last time you were made to feel unwelcome _anywhere?”_

They’re drawing stares from the table. Combeferre is getting slowly to his feet, eyes quizzical. Enjolras ignores them, mouth narrowing into a thin little line. 

“Let me make one thing absolutely clear, Grantaire.” Enjolras leans forward into his space, and Grantaire shivers despite himself. Enjolras’s eyes _burn._ “You know fuck. All. About. Me.” He spits the words out like poison before turning on his heel and stalking back to the group.

Grantaire doesn’t wait to find out if he’s still welcome at their table. He stubs out his cigarette violently and skulks back inside to the bar.

 

Musichetta rolls her eyes when the wild-haired man slides onto a bar stool, his face like a thundercloud. _Enjolras strikes again, probably._ “What can I get you, honey?” Her voice is bored, but she can’t bring herself to care. 

“Double whiskey.”

“A ‘please’ wouldn’t go astray.”

He meets her eyes with a glare, but quickly withers under her hard gaze. “Please, ‘Chetta,” he mutters, and Musichetta softens. He sounds just a little bit broken. 

“Wanna talk about it?” She asks as she pours.

“Nope.” Grantaire takes the glass and downs half of it in one gulp. Musichetta frowns.

“Okay, but I’m warning you now - if you puke in my bar I’m gonna rub your nose in it.”

Grantaire sniggers, but doesn’t look up again. She finds herself breathing a sigh of relief when she sees Feuilly slipping through the door and making a bee-line for him. Feuilly was good at these situations.

 

“He was right, you know,” Feuilly says casually, sliding into the seat next to Grantaire without looking at him.

“Who,” Grantaire asks tonelessly.

“You know who.” Feuilly puts a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and squeezes, offering a sympathetic smile. Grantaire wants to shake him off, wants to spit curses at him - but his brown eyes are so infuriatingly _kind,_ and suddenly Grantaire wants to cry. “Enjolras. He’s right - you don’t know his perspective, or his experiences. But... that doesn’t mean you can’t learn.”

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m not going to apologise.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then why are you here?”

Feuilly chuckled. “Partly because I wanted to make sure you were okay. You wouldn’t be the first that Enjolras reduced to tears.”

Grantaire looked at him incredulously. “Do you see tears?” he deadpanned.

“No. Which makes you more resilient than some.” Feuilly grinned at him and took a swig of his beer. “Respect, man.”

Grantaire frowned, brushing the compliment aside. “You said ‘partly’.”

“Yes.” Feuilly’s face turned serious. “This is a personal question, but... are you and Jehan...” he broke off, suddenly flushing under his freckles. “Um. I mean, are you two-”

Grantaire smirks. “Spit it out.”

“Shut up.” Feuilly shakes his head before blurting out, “Are you together?”

Grantaire takes a long, slow sip of his whiskey, enjoying Feuilly’s obvious discomfort, before answering. “No. We’re not.” Feuilly’s eyes lit up. “But they’re my best friend, and I used to be a boxing instructor. Just so you know.”

“Understood.” Feuilly was grinning again now.

“You’re not going to ask for advice?” Grantaire asks, surprised despite himself. Feuilly shrugs.

“It’s more sincere if I work it out for myself, isn’t it?”

“Whatever,” Grantaire grumbles, hoping Feuilly couldn’t see that he’s impressed.

“Are you going to ask me for advice on Enjolras?” Feuilly’s smile has turned sly.

“What the fuck for?” Grantaire downs the rest of his drink, avoiding Feuilly’s eyes. 

Feuilly claps a hand on his shoulder again and gives him a little shake. “Come on back outside, then. Joly and Bousset miss your stories.”

 

 

 

It was thanks to Jehan, really, that they, Grantaire, Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly and Bousset ended up in the empty supermarket carpark at 2am, racing shopping trolleys across the bitumen. Back at the bar, Grantaire had sat with shoulders hunched, sneaking nervous glances at Enjolras, on the next table with Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Marius and Eponine. He hardly took part in the conversation, until eventually Jehan had announced that they needed to run, and Grantaire smiled knowingly even as Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly and Bousset looked baffled.

Jehan did sometimes need to run. Dropping whatever they’re doing to sprint around the block like the hounds of hell were at their heels helped them keep anxiety at bay, and besides, it was fun. Sometimes Grantaire joined them. Tonight, all six of them clattered down the stairs, shouting their goodbyes to those staying behind, and took off after Jehan; Bahorel with Bousset on his back, because he would inevitably trip otherwise.

After twists and turns through alleyways and sleeping civilian streets, Jehan skidded to a halt as they burst out into the empty carpark. They barely had a second to catch their breath before Feuilly yelled “Gotcha!”, grabbed them around their waist and swung them around in a circle, making them shriek and giggle. 

Grantaire, close behind Feuilly, ran straight to a lone trolley and jumped on the back, his momentum sending it rolling, clattering along, before he jumped off and turned it back towards Jehan and Feuilly - and Bahorel, Bousset and Joly, who were just catching up, breathless and faces flushed. 

“Someone get in,” he yelled, grinning all over his face, and that was what started it. 

Now Jehan stood in the trolley they shared with Feuilly, wedging their feet between the bars for stability before spreading their thin arms wide and leaning forward, gasping and laughing as the wind whipped tugged their hair and forced their eyes closed, ignoring Feuilly’s squawk of horror and Grantaire’s breathless laugh as he sped up. 

In the other trolley, Joly, or Bousset, maybe both, were screaming without much real fear, Bahorel shouting curses at Grantaire as the latter pulled further ahead. 

They felt Feuilly stand behind them and wrap an arm around their waist.  
“You’ll fall, you nutcase,” in their ear, but he didn’t try to pull them back. 

Jehan only laughed, and cried at Grantaire to go faster, faster, faster - until the trolley wobbled and skidded over a loose stone and Grantaire let out a panicked yell a split second before it hit the gutter and tipped Jehan and Feuilly out on the nature strip. They lay there for a second, gasping for breath, a tangle of limbs and grass-stains, before Jehan turned to smile at Feuilly. 

“It’s like flying,” they whispered, and Feuilly burst out laughing. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought about having a regular update thing once a week on a regular day, but turns out i don't like working like that, so i guess i'll just try and post more as often as i can?! still aiming for once a week, but life may get in the way a little bit and not every chapter will be as long as these guys. Anyway yes PLEASE TELL ME IF YOU LIKED THE THING <3
> 
> i'm on tumblr too; wardrobespierre.tumblr.com and wardrobespierrewrites.tumblr.com


	3. I receive no warning, now that's heart warming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is having a feeling and Grantaire is having a crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so tempted to throw some Courferre smut into this chapter, you guys - but I didn't because maybe not everyone's here for that?? and also i don't write smut like, at all, so it would probably have been terrible. But if there is interest I might do a companion fic because Courfeyrac/Combeferre are a freaking adorable couple and I love them. You should drop me a comment or a tumblr message if that's a thing you wanna see ^-^
> 
> Trigger warning for references to transphobia and panic attacks, and also for alcoholism and nasty self-hatey bullshit. 
> 
> Title is from the song 'You Don't Get Me Twice' by Sleigh Bells.

Enjolras slams his book shut with a bang, startling Courfeyrac and Combeferre into looking up. “ _Fuck_ this.”

“Dude, _what_?” Courfeyrac asks, leaning over to rest a calming hand on Enjolras’s arm. 

“I’ve read this page like five damn times. I just can’t take it in, what’s wrong with me?” He ran a hand through his hair, making his golden curls stand up like a halo.

“Maybe we need a break.” Combeferre stood up, stretching. “Tea?”

“Please,” Enjolras groaned. 

“I got some more of that lemongrass and ginger one you like,” Combeferre offered, drifting into the kitchen and flicking the kettle on.

“My lord and savior.” Enjolras pitched forward to rest his forehead on Courfeyrac’s thigh, letting his friend pet his hair soothingly. 

Minutes later, when the three of them were curled on the couch, mugs in hand, Courfeyrac looked at Enjolras expectantly. 

“So. What’s up?”

Enjolras sighed. “That guy last night...”

“Grantaire?”

“Yeah, him.” Enjolras took a deep breath of the steam rising from his tea, trying to calm his frayed nerves. “Fuck, he pissed me off.”

“It’s nothing you haven’t heard before, Enjolras.” Combeferre was frowning, concern in his eyes. 

“And you shut him down completely,” Courfeyrac added.

“I know, I just... God, I’m so glad I didn’t perform.”

“No. No, no no. Don’t do that.” Combeferre shook his head emphatically. “Enjolras, it’s always up to you whether you perform or not - but you should never, ever keep quiet because of who might be in the audience.”

“You haven’t been afraid of performing in years,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “Not since you came out.”

“I’m not afraid,” Enjolras said defensively, and then deflated. “... why am I afraid?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac just looked at him.

“I shouldn’t be afraid of what he thinks, or what he says. Why should I care what he thinks of me or my beliefs or my poetry?” Enjolras was rambling now, but he didn’t care. “I can’t understand. Jehan wouldn’t bring a total asshole along, so... why did they? Why is Jehan even friends with him? He’s such a... such a douche,” he finished lamely, and took a sip of his tea. 

“Maybe he isn’t, though,” Combeferre suggested gently. “Maybe you just got off on the wrong foot.”

“He was a fucking idiot,” Enjolras said flatly.

“Look, I heard what he said,” Courfeyrac said, leveling a finger at his friend. “And dude, I think it was all a misunderstanding. Sure, he was negative and ignorant, but he’s obviously seen some shit, you know? Remember when I met you, Enjolras?” he smiled sadly at the memory. “When you’d just moved here from your shitty little hometown, and you barely knew what it meant to be gay, let alone transgender? You thought you were so fucked up. You had panic attacks over leaving the house.”

Enjolras frowned. “Courf, don’t. That’s not something I’m proud of.”

“But you _should_ be proud, Enj, that’s my point. You’ve grown so much, and if that’s not something to be proud of, I don’t know what is. But you’ve forgotten what it’s like to not know hope.” Courfeyrac reached to give his knee a squeeze. “You wouldn’t call Enjolras-four-years-ago an idiot, right? He was just as ignorant as Grantaire is. He just needed a chance, and maybe that’s all Grantaire needs.”

Enjolras’s eyes prickled and he swallowed a lump in his throat, but he shook his head. “It’s not the same. Jehan has known Grantaire for years. He should know better.”

“Not everyone looks at the world the same way,” Combeferre sighed. “Just... don’t write him off completely, Enjolras. Jehan is a good judge of character.”

Enjolras sighed. “Guys... I think I need to get some air.” He stands up, draining his mug of tea. “I’m gonna go for a walk round the park, just to clear my head. I’ll be back in an hour, probably.”

“Sure.” Courfeyrac smiles kindly at him. “We’ll leave the door unlocked.”

 

 

Enjolras walked briskly, hunching his shoulders against the chill in the air despite the thick wool of his peacoat. There was a lake nearby, wide and ringed by a nature reserve and walking track - it took him barely ten minutes until he was standing on the little jetty, watching the light breeze send ripples across the steely surface. A pair of ducks drifted closeby, eyeing Enjolras suspiciously - one was beautiful, bold emerald green feathers and a curled little tail - its mate was a more understated tawny brown, but a flash of green - or was it purple? - shone from it’s wings. Enjolras smiled. He loved the lake, loved being surrounded by trees and water and wildlife where he could forget the spawling citywith its greed and its violence and its despair, forget his constant fight, and just _be_ for five minutes.  
 _Maybe Grantaire likes the outdoors too._

Enjolras blinked and shook his head minutely at the intrusive thought. _Where had that come from? What did he care what Grantaire liked?_

He blew out an irritated breath and turned on his heel to stride down the path. _Fuck Grantaire. Fuck his apathy and his snark and his stupid smug smirk and fuck his big dumb brown eyes especially -_

Enjolras dug his headphones out of his bag, snapping them over his curls and clicking up the volume until the gritty noise-pop lifted his feet, straightened his spine and drowned out the sarcastic voice in his head _\- when was the last time you faced discrimination, Apollo? -_ until the burning in his stomach became comfortable.

 

 

It’s Saturday. Grantaire is vaguely aware that it’s evening, now; the light filtering through the blinds is red-gold, as if the world outside his apartment is burning while he cowers in the corner under the blue acrylic glare of his latest burst of productivity. _He is so fucked._

He feels guilty before he even makes the call, but that doesn’t stop him punching in his best friend’s number.  
Jehan arrives half an hour later, with a bottle of wine dangling from one hand and a bag of take-away from the other. They lift the wine out of Grantaire’s reach when he makes grabby-hands at it.

“Food first, R, that’s the rules.”

Grantaire grumbles, but he kisses Jehan’s cheek and presses his face to their hair for a moment, inhaling the scent of rose and vanilla and something _sharper_ that is so distinctly _Jehan_ , holding the back of their neck a little desperately. “Thank you,” he rasps out. 

Jehan doesn’t reply, just turns their head to press a long kiss to Grantaire’s forehead before he breaks away to set the table. 

Jehan moves to follow him to the kitchen, but stops in their tracks, their eyes drawn to the huge face on the bedsheet tacked to the wall. 

It looks like an angel; the curves of it’s cheekbones, jaw, and pretty little nose are soft and feminine. It’s lips are plush and rosy, and a similar color rises to it’s cheeks - but the eyes, the eyes were ice-blue and vivid, set in an unmistakable glare that sent a shiver down Jehan’s spine. And it was all framed in cascading golden curls that shone like sunlight, like a halo, and set on a shadowy background. Jehan knew that face, and that stare. They knew it very, very well. 

Grantaire cleared his throat, shaking Jehan out of their trance. He looked embarrassed - no, more than embarrassed. Grantaire looked _miserable._

Jehan smiled bracingly at him. “Come on, lets eat.”

They tuck into the veritable feast of curries, samosas and naan bread without speaking. Grantaire’s empty stomach aches - he thinks maybe he’s eaten an apple and two pieces of dry toast in the past few days, since he went out for dinner with Jehan. He’d spent one day in a drunken stupor, and then the next, still half-drunk, he’d started painting. When the blinding hangover crept up on him he’d eaten a bit of toast so that he could stomach painkillers, and then just kept painting, painted through the night, he doesn’t remember eating the apple but the core is on the floor so he must have - and when he finished at about ten am that morning, he’d collapsed on the couch and slept until the afternoon. It wasn’t enough sleep, not nearly enough, but the face on the wall had glared accusingly at him until his heart thudded in his chest. Even now, with his back to it, he could feel it’s stare. _Jesus Christ._

Jehan looked at him, patience and gentle concern all over their sweet face as though they know what the past few days have been just by looking at him - which, Grantaire conceded, they probably did. 

They opened the wine bottle and poured Grantaire a glass. “So,” they started, their voice careful. “ _Enjolras.”_

Grantaire cringed internally. “What about him,” he said gruffly, but Jehan set the wine bottle down with a thump and gave him a look that plainly said _none of your shit today._

“Please, honey,” they said, but their tone was kind. “That -” they pointed at the painted bedsheet. “That was quite an undertaking. It’s _huge,_ and so much _detail -_ was it from a picture? No? All from memory? Gods above, ‘Taire, it’s so _beautiful._ And,” Jehan paused to reach over the table and give Grantaire’s hand a squeeze. “It’s so, so _him._ The eyes, darling, that look - it’s _Enjolras._ Unmistakable.” 

Grantaire didn’t smile. He kept his eyes fixed to the tabletop even as he squeezed Jehan’s hand back. “I’m such a creep.”

“ _What?”_

“I’m a _creep,_ Jehan!” Grantaire stands up suddenly, knocking his chair over backwards as he strides up to the painting, gesturing wildly. “What the fuck have I done? He hates me, and he’d hate me even more if he knew about this. This is a total violation of - of - I don’t know, it’s _wrong._ He deserves better. So, so much better - and it doesn’t even do him justice.” Grantaire leans against the wall next to the sheet, covering his face with his hands as he slowly slides down towards the floor. “He’s too fucking _perfect,_ ” he mumbles into his palms.

“‘Aire, ‘Aire, ‘Aire,” Jehan nearly trips over themselves hurrying to drop to Grantaire’s side and wrap their thin arms around him. “He wouldn’t be mad. He’d be a bit embarrassed, maybe, but he’d probably be really flattered. You’re not a creep, you’re not, don’t talk about yourself that way.”

Grantaire laugh’s, a hollow, empty sound. “How do you do it, sweetheart? How do you put up with me?”

“I don’t ‘put up with you’, Grantaire,” Jehan murmurs into his hair. “Stop it. You know I love you.”

“Why? I’m such a fuck-up.”

“You’re not a fuck-up.”

“I really pissed him off.”

Jehan sighed. “Well... yes, you really did. Because you were rude, and insensitive, and you didn’t think about what you were saying. But ‘Aire, I know you, and I know that you’re not actually an insensitive person. You just pretend to be, a lot, and I don’t understand why.”

“Maybe I am.”

“If you really were insensitive you wouldn’t be sitting here, beating yourself up about offending a man you barely know.” 

“He’s... not a man.”

Jehan blanched. “ _What?”_

“He’s so, so much more than a man. How is he even real?”

Jehan visibly relaxed. “But, darling, he _is_ real, and he’s human. He has feelings and he appreciates kindness and he gets sad sometimes just like you and me.” They reached up to pry Grantaire’s hands gently from his face. “You wanna know something cute?”

“Mm?” Grantaire smiled a watery smile, letting his hands fall.

“Enjolras _loves_ ice cream sodas. Like, _loves_ them. Raspberry ones.” Jehan remembered _Enjolras the day he started HRT, only a few months after they’d met him, how they, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had gone to pick him up to take him to the doctor’s and found him crying his eyes out because his father had called him to tell him he would be disowned if he went through with it. Jehan had almost cried, too, in sympathy, but Combeferre and Courfeyrac looked at each other as if they’d dealt with this a thousand times before, bundled Enjolras into the car and rushed him to the 50’s-themed diner just down the road from his clinic. And Jehan had watched in delighted fascination as the color came back to his cheeks as if it came directly from the straw he was sucking, how he said nothing until he’d finished his first one, at which point he’d loudly announced that his father was an arsehole. After his second one, he announced that he was going though with it after all, and after his third, he was giggling his way through his sugar high like a six-year-old as he and Courfeyrac tried to convince Combeferre that going to the local theme park after Enjolras’s appointment was the best idea in the world._ Jehan grinned at the memory. There was only a small handful of times, in the two years they’d known Enjolras, that he had laughed so freely and so honestly - and one of them was the other night, at Grantaire’s stories. 

“Ice-cream sodas,” Grantaire repeats, disbelief etched in every syllable.

“Yes. They make his lips and his tongue all red.” Grantaire’s eyes widen slightly at that, and Jehan continues. “And he doesn’t laugh much, you know, especially not around strangers. But you made him laugh.”

Grantaire smiles shyly. “Well, it was Eponine, really, the story was about her...”

“Stop that. _You_ made him laugh.”

Grantaire smiles a little bit wider - and then all at once, his face crumples and he bursts into tears. 

“Oh, honey, shhhh,” Jehan wraps their arms around Grantaire again, pulling him close and letting him sob into their hair. 

Tears from Grantaire, as much it clenched Jehan’s heart painfully, were actually a good thing. Tears were cathartic, and often marked the tail end of a depression; meaning that Grantaire would get up in the morning and function fairly normally, showering and eating solid meals and catching up with friends and clients for at least the next few days. Tears were a relief, and Jehan could almost feel the weight lifting from Grantaire’s shaking shoulders as they held him and whispered soothing words into his hair. 

An hour later, Grantaire was curled around Jehan on his lumpy bed, snoring lightly whilehis friend carded their hand slowly through his curls. Jehan deftly thumbed a text to Eponine with their other hand; _Fyi, R broke a little bit tonight. I’ve got damage control covered, but he’d probably love to see you tomorrow. You busy? x  
_ The reply was almost instantaneous. _Thank god for u J babe. Should be free after 3 ish tomorrow, if its not crisis level?_

Jehan smiled. _No crisis. Let’s do some horror movie therapy, see you then <3_

They let the phone slip from their hand before waiting for a reply, snuggling close to Grantaire and letting their eyes drift closed.  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is listening to Sleigh Bells who are really great and you should listen to them too. Music makes him feel safe when he's scared or uncomfortable. 
> 
> I've got that comment thirst yo!!!


	4. You could be anyone, you could be nothing at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine meets a blast from the past ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL WOW THAT SUMMARY WAS LAME I'M SO SORRY
> 
> Chapter title is from 'Out There' by Hello Satellites. I just really like lyrics as titles right now?! probably because I'm unoriginal and can't think of my own X) 
> 
> ARE YOU EXCITED FOR SOME LES MIS LADIES BECAUSE I AM <3 except I don't know if I'm happy with this chapter?? I didn't get to spend as much time on it as I'd like. Life has been very busy this week.
> 
> Un-beta'd, as usual. Trigger warnings for mentions of child abuse and a little bit of light slut-shaming.

Eponine Thenandier is not the type to run; not from a challenge, not from a fight, and not from her past. That doesn’t mean, though, that she ever actively seeks out those things, particularly the latter; and so it had come of something of a shock to her when she had recognized her - childhood acquaintance? foster sister? fellow unfortunate? - on her tumblr dashboard, stunningly beautiful now with her blonde hair rolled and pinned just so and her retro-style spotted dress hugging her curves, barely recognizable from the skinny, grizzly child Eponine had known. But she had recognized her, and after scrolling through her blog for like an hour (fashion, body positivity, occasional personal posts about her adorable but overprotective father) she had screwed her courage to the sticking point and sent her a message.

_Hey Cosette, I don’t know if you remember me; we lived together for a bit when we were kids. I mean that’s probably not a time you like thinking about, and I’m really sorry if me talking to you is bringing up bad vibes - I just wanted to tell you you’re looking awesome, I’m so glad everything worked out for you in the end, and I’m sorry I was such a little shit. Shine on. -Eponine_

She wasn’t really expecting a reply; maybe a short, non-committal one, intended to be polite but discourage further communication. She hadn’t expected the enthusiastic response she received within the hour;

_Eponine!! Of course I remember you!! Wow, your blog is amazing babe!!! SO. FIERCE. And no way, I am super excited to hear from you. Nothing to be sorry for sweetie, that was a difficult period for both of us, we both had to put our own survival first and that’s okay. It looks like things are going great for you too, look at you saving the world one clinic defense rally at a time!!! So proud of you!!! And omg I’m totally living in the same city as you, I moved here like a month ago! I don’t know anyone here, and I don’t know all the cute little secret coffee places all the cool kids go to - maybe we could catch up sometime? You could show me round a bit and we could kind of start over? Love Cosette xxx_

And that was why Eponine was now sitting on the train station steps, nearly vibrating out of her skin with nerves, her lips itching for a cigarette even though she’d literally just stubbed one out. She felt off-kilter - she didn’t _do_ nervous. Not anymore, not for years; she did brash and loud and unapologetic, and this anxious jittery thing felt way too familiar for all the wrong reasons, like she was about to be bawled out, like she was about to be slapped, like there was a figure looming over her with a belt in his hand-  
She stood up abruptly, rolling her shoulders and cracking her neck. The _crunch_ grounded her, reminded her of herself. Her body was strong, and so was she, and there was no threat here, she was meeting Cosette, who would probably never raise her voice in anything other than delight and excitement. Cosette, who was probably feeling just as nervous as she was, and with way more reason, too. Seven-year-old Eponine had been nothing short of _awful_ to six-year-old Cosette, some kind of warped sense of relief and vindication gained from seeing the younger girl shouted at and whacked with the broom handle and denied meals by her parents as Eponine had been before Cosette had arrived, and she’d fed that by tattling on the child at every opportunity, sometimes even blaming her for things _she_ had done wrong. A sick, hot feeling twists in Eponine’s stomach at the thought. She had a _lot_ to answer for.  
Of course, when Cosette’s now-adopted-father had come along, he’d taken one look at Cosette’s malnourished, bruise-covered figure and reported the family to social services - and Eponine and her two little siblings Azelma and Gavroche were quickly removed, and then separated and lost in the foster care system. In the next ten years, Eponine lived with six different families before running away the day she turned seventeen, running to the city to look for work, sleeping in bus shelters for about a week before she met Grantaire and moved into that mess of an anarchist sharehouse with no electricity and dodgy plumbing and started living life on her own terms. Cosette had been swept away by her new dad to a life of comfort and unconditional love, and had grown up safe and probably very well-adjusted, she was probably popular at school and got good grades and had a lot to be proud of, and she had left Eponine and her kind far behind her. _I deserved to be left behind,_ Eponine thinks bitterly, and allows herself to hope that she’s taken enough bullshit in the elapsed time to be forgiven.

“Eponine?”

She jumped as a young blonde woman appeared at her elbow, about a head shorter than herself and even more radiant than she had been in the photos on her blog, smiling hopefully at her.

Eponine let out a long breath. “Cosette.”

Cosette squealed and stood on tiptoe to throw her arms around Eponine’s neck. “It’s been so long! Oh, it’s so good to see you.” 

Eponine returned the hug, cautiously at first, then relaxing into it when Cosette didn’t immediately let go. She felt soft, her blue cardigan was fluffy, and she smelled like coconut and violets. Eponine swallowed around the lump that rose in her throat.

She took no small amount of pride in being able to show Cosette her favorite cafe, a little nook between two tall buildings with fairy lights and strings of artificial flowers strung up where a ceiling should be, the baristas working out of a little caravan and the little tables and stools scattered around, topped off with a ridiculously tacky Virgin Mary shrine in the corner. 

“So what do you do with yourself now?” Cosette asked, once they were seated and their coffees ordered.

Eponine shrugged. “I’m working at a gym part time, and doing a lot of activism stuff, like you saw. I’ve been running a free women’s self defense class every week too, which is really great, I’d like to be doing more of that.” She smiled a little. “Actually, I’ve just started this course by correspondence to become a qualified instructor.”

“That’s so great!”

Eponine’s smile widened at Cosette’s obvious enthusiasm. “Well, I mean, I love it, so, y’know...”

“No, it’s awesome babe, you should be so proud.” Cosette reached over the table to squeeze Eponine’s hand - and then let it go quickly when the barista brought over the coffees.

“Let me guess,” the man chuckled. “The hazelnut latte is _yours;”_ he placed it very deliberately in front of Cosette, who blushed a little. “And the long black -” he turned to Eponine and raised an eyebrow. “Like your soul?”

Eponine stuck out her chin belligerently. “Son, you have no idea.”

The barista raised his hands in surrender and backed away, still chuckling.

“Am I a stereotype?” Cosette mumbled, fiddling self-consiously with her patterned skirt. 

“Ugh, of course not.” Eponine shook her head. “I come here all the time. He knows my order. He just thinks he’s funny.”

Cosette looked relieved and Eponine frowned.

“Why would you care anyway?”

“I don’t, I guess, but...” Cosette shrugged. “People like to make a joke out of femininity, you know, and it’s not nice...”

“Oh, a- _men._ ” Eponine raised a hand to the heavens. “Like, I dress how I wanna dress and all, but I know some girls that spend all day in six inch heels and perfect lipstick that kick _serious_ arse when they have to-”

“And even feminine girls that don’t kick arse -”

“-are awesome and important and definitely not a joke,” Eponine finished, and the two women grinned broadly at each other.

“You’ve grown, Ep,” Cosette murmured.

“So have you, blondie.” Eponine suddenly realised she liked Cosette’s smile a lot. Especially when it was directed at her. She took a sip of scalding hot coffee and cleared her throat. “So... what are you doing with yourself?”

“Oh, you know, trying to settle in,” Cosette sighed and waved her hand vaguely. “I’m hoping to start a fashion design course in a few months, but until then I’m just working on my designs and doing custom orders.”

“You make clothes?”

“Yeah, I have an etsy store.” Cosette smiled bashfully. “I made this. The skirt and blouse.” She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt so Eponine could see.

“Nice,” Eponine nodded appreciatively, taking in the pattern of vintage-tattoo-style colored mermaids, anchors, roses and swallows on the skirt, and the western-style embroidery detail on the shirt. Now that she looked closely, she could make out the words ‘chub club’ stitched alongside the flowering vines on one side. “Cute. Looks like a lot of work.”

“Oh, yes, I don’t get many orders because it’s just too hard to compete with mass-produced clothing, price-wise.” Cosette rolls her eyes. “But I specialise in plus sizes, and honestly good plus size clothing is hard to come by and expensive anyway, so for most of my customers it’s not even a huge jump from what they’re used to paying.”

“Do you charge a lot?”

“Like, it’s not even a _lot_ when you put it in perspective, because I not only design the pattern and make it all by hand, half the time I design and custom order the fabric too, but you know...” Cosette waves her hand again. “Yeah. Compared to like, Kmart. It’s a lot.” She took a sip of her latte and then smiled hopefully. “But I love it, that makes it worth it. The etsy store means I can earn money and build my portfolio at the same time.”

Eponine put her head on one side and smiled, pride and a sad sort of empty feeling warring in her chest. “Your dad must be really proud,” she murmured. 

“He is.” Cosette seemed to sense Eponine’s conflict, reaching across the table to take her hand and give it a squeeze. “And he’ll be so glad to hear that you’re doing so well, Ep.”

Eponine didn’t answer, just squeezed her hand back and tried to keep smiling.

“How’s your little sister and your baby brother? Azelma and... was it Gavroche?”

Eponine can’t keep her smile in place any more. “I don’t know. We got separated when we went into foster care. I’ve been trying to track them down, but I haven’t had any luck yet.”

Cosette covers her lipsticked mouth with her hand. “Oh, god. Eponine, I’m so sorry...”

“Don’t _you_ say sorry. It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, but... well. You could say it was, in a way.” She looks down at the table, her face twisting as though in pain.

Eponine sighs. “It really, really wasn’t.” She’s still holding Cosette’s hand, and after a moments hesitation she twines her fingers with her’s. “Look, I was a real horrible little fuck when we were kids, and I just want you to know-” she breaks off, swallowing hard on the lump in her throat when Cosette looks up at her with her blue eyes wide. “I want you to know that I’m sorry.”

“I really, really don’t want to talk about that,” Cosette murmurs gently. “But you don’t have to apologize. I don’t need you to apologize. I want to be friends, and I don’t want the past to be this big thing between us. Can we... I mean, do you think that’s-”

“That’s cool. That’s fine. That’s perfect, Cosette.” 

They smile at each other, watery, fragile smiles, and when Eponine sits by herself on the train to Grantaire’s with the music from her headphones shouting out her doubts and fears she realizes she might have caught herself another crush. 

 

 

 

 

As Grantaire had expected, as soon as Eponine arrived she took one look at Enjolras’s face painted on the sheet and rounded on Grantaire. 

“No, no fucking way, are you fucking kidding me, R?!”

Grantaire shrugged, looking at his feet as Jehan put a protective arm around his shoulders and gave Eponine a Look. “I know. Stupid, right?”

Eponine let out a long breath, visibly calming herself before she continued. “Look, I love Enjolras, he’s a great friend and he’s done a lot for me, but believe me when I say, R, that you would be terrible for each other.”

“Why?” asked Jehan sharply. “I don’t see that.”

“That’s because you’re a romantic. Opposites don’t attract in real life, they crash and burn. Enjolras is a control freak, and you, Grantaire, are uncontrollable by definition. You’re also both completely shit with expressing your emotions-”

“So we _do_ have something in common,” Grantaire quipped, raising his head to shoot her a sly grin.

Eponine glared. “Don’t do it. Don’t go after Enjolras. It’s a terrible idea.”

“Oh you shush, Eponine,” Jehan snapped. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been playing Marius’s shadow for months now and never so much as dropped a cheesy chat-up line, and are you better off for it? Of course you’re not. You are ridiculous, stop wishing your sad pining on everyone else.”

Eponine flushed and drew herself up to her full height. “Some of us take relationships _seriously_ , Jehan, and that way they last more than a month at a time. You should try it.”

“That’s enough, that is _so_ enough,” Grantaire interrupted as Jehan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you guys fuckin serious? Look, it’s _my_ stupid pointless crush, and I’ll figure it out on my own. What the fuck was that, are you fourteen?! Jesus. Kiss and make up or I’ll eat all the tacos by myself.” He turned and stomped off into the kitchen, leaving Eponine and Jehan eyeing each other suspiciously.

“I’m sorry,” Jehan conceded after a pause. “It was nasty of me to bring up Marius. I know why you haven’t chased him, and there’s no shame in that. In fact, I might be a bit jealous of your self control.” They shot Eponine a hopeful little smile and held out their hands. Eponine sighed and smiled back as she took them.

“I’m sorry I threw shade on your flings. There’s nothing wrong with dating like that. And if we’re swapping jealousies, I would kill for your sex life.” She grinned suddenly. “Speaking of which, did you end up taking Feuilly home the other night?”

Jehan huffed. “Actually... No. I might need to ask your advice on that at some point. Grantaire, too.”

As if on cue, Grantaire shouted from the kitchen. “Are we a big happy family again yet?!”

Eponine suddenly tightened her grip on Jehan’s hands. “J, I’m serious though. You know Enjolras. Grantaire couldn’t handle him,” she murmured in a low voice.

“You underestimate him,” Jehan whispered back. 

“Do I? Or do you overestimate Enjolras? He’s not kind, he’s not patient, he’s arrogant as fuck - he’d be fucking _toxic_ for R.”

“That’s total shit,” Jehan placed their hands on their thin hips, raising their voice indignantly. “He _is_ kind. He just doesn’t show it because people take advantage of kindness, Eponine, and he’s had too much of that in his life already. What is _up,_ girl, you’ve been working with him for like six months, you should know him better than that.”

“You are just _determined_ to see everyone as perfect and golden,” Eponine cried, thowing her hands towards the ceiling and rolling her eyes, ignoring Grantaire peering around the doorway. “Just because I’m his friend doesn’t make me blind to his faults. He’s a good person but I’m telling you he is _not boyfriend material.”_

“Neither am I, Ep.” They both turned at the sound of Grantaire’s voice. He smiled sadly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to go after him. He deserves a hell of a lot better than me, I’d only drag him down. So that settles that, you two can cut out the bickering now, please, so we can eat.”

“That’s not what I was saying, R,” Eponine said carefully as Jehan wrung their hands, looking distressed.

“I know, but it’s true. Like I said, it’s just a stupid crush. Now for fuck’s sake lets talk about something else.”

 

 

They didn’t actually speak until they were settled in front of the TV with their tacos, watching the opening credits as the silence started to stretch. Jehan turned to Eponine with an argumentative twist to their lips.

“You’re in a right mood tonight.”

Grantaire stiffened, fully expecting Eponine to tell Jehan to go fuck themselves, but she didn’t - instead, she groaned and slumped over the side of the couch. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Jehan softened. “What’s up?”

Eponine told them the story of her coffee date with Cosette, how pretty she was, how her gentle strength made her want to cry and how she smelled amazing. “I have way too many fucking feelings,” she lamented. “I cannot _fucking_ get over that big dumb dork Marius and now apparently I fancy this girl who I have the _single_ most complicated history with _ever_ and you’d think that would make me want Marius less but it _hasn’t._ So now I have _two_ stupid unrequited crushes that I don’t know what to do with.”

“I don’t understand why you haven’t just fucking snogged Pontmercy already,” Grantaire sighed. “You’ve been talking about him for months, and he seems alright, in the two seconds I got to talk to him before you whisked him away.”

“I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” Eponine told him, with the exasperated air of someone who keeps having to repeat themselves.

“Go for Cosette then,” Jehan told her. “You haven’t built up that friendship yet. You wouldn’t be risking anything.”

“She’s probably very straight.”

“Why don’t you invite her to Voices?” Grantaire asked suddenly. “Invite her, do your poetry thing - if she jumps you as soon as you walk off stage you’ll know for sure whether she’s straight or not.” He winks at her, grinning.

Eponine hesitates. “Actually... that’s not a bad idea.” She frowns to herself for a minute, and then pulls out her phone and hammers out a quick text message. “There. Invited her. I mean, she might not even want to go, poetry might not be her thing, but it can’t hurt to ask, right?” She looked at Jehan and Grantaire for reassurance, her eyes nervous. Jehan reached over to squeeze her hand, and then she jumped when her phone buzzed. “Oh my god - she’s going to come.”

“Awesome, now can we all shut up because this looks terrifying enough to supply me with nightmares for month,” Grantaire exclaimed gleefully, eyes glued to the screen, and the three of them huddled closer together on the couch in anticipation.

 

 

 

The movie turned out to be at least terrifying enough to turn Jehan into a clingy mess for the rest of the night and demand that they forego the other two horror flicks they had lined up in favor of _Tangled_ and _Amelie_ \- which, unsurprisingly, wasn’t met with much argument from a pale-faced Eponine and a slightly jumpy Grantaire. 

Neither Jehan nor Eponine particularly felt like finding their way home that night, either, even after copious amounts of fluffy movies, ice cream and cuddling, so all three of them curled up together in Grantaire’s bed, any fighting forgotten as Eponine tangled her legs with Jehan’s and buried her face in their hair, trying not to laugh at Grantaire telling them they’re wimps in a voice that wasn’t quite as steady as he hoped it was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curvy Cosette is VERY IMPORTANT TO ME. 
> 
> I IMAGINE THAT JEHAN IS A BIG SOFTIE BABY WHO ALWAYS WANTS TO WATCH HORROR MOVIES BUT THEN GETS REALLY MESSED UP BY THEM AND THEN AFTER LIKE TWO DAYS THEY'RE LIKE 'YEAH THAT WAS A GOOD MOVIE' AND GRANTAIRE IS LIKE 'R U FKN SRS YOU HID IN MY SHOULDER THE WHOLE TIME'  
> Jehan is just very open with their emotions okay they don't have time for macho bullshit ~
> 
> And um. Yeah. Jehan and Eponine are prone to little tiffs, especially over Grantaire. They do love and appreciate each other a lot, though.
> 
> Ps. for those of you who expressed an interest in Courferre smut, I am totally working on it!! but it's a slow process because I really really don't know how to write smut, omg. But it will happen!! Promise!!


	5. I am agog, I am aghast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan's shoes are amazing, Cosette is fab, Feuilly makes great cocktails and Marius is a huge dork, but that's okay because so is Grantaire.
> 
> BIG DUMB BABIES FALLING IN LOVE AND STUFF <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FOR REFERENCE: JEHAN'S SHOES. VERY IMPORTANT. http://www.irregularchoice.com/shop/xhr-list/product/6281/one-who-charms.html
> 
> Trigger warning for a lot of talk about alcohol? No one is blind drunk but they chat about nice cocktails. Idk if someone is getting over an alcohol addiction or something it might make things hard. Maybe.
> 
> Also warning: I tried to write the boys something poetic to say. An attempt was made. DON'T LOOK AT ME
> 
> Anyway I haven't really been doing chapter dedications but this one goes out to all the babes who have left comments so far. Y'ALL SO IMPORTANT TO ME <3 <3 <3

**Jehan, 4.23pm:** _How much do you love me? <3 <3 <3_

**Eponine, 4.25pm:** _omg what do u want_

**Jehan, 4.27pm:** _Those gorgeous unicorn heels you never even wear_

**Eponine, 4.28pm:** _wat_

**Eponine, 4.28pm:** _oh those ridiculous fkn things_

**Eponine, 4.29pm:** _wasn’t it you who told R to get me them in the first place??_

**Jehan, 4.30pm:** _they are AMAZING_

**Eponine, 4.31pm:** _i agree but idk why y’all thought i would ever wear them_

**Eponine, 4.31pm:** _i dont even wear heels_

**Jehan, 4.32pm:** _so can i borrow them???_

**Eponine, 4.33pm:** _u fkn diva_

**Eponine, 4.33pm:** _ofc u can_

**Eponine, 4.34pm:** _in fact u shld just keep them if they fit u, theyd suit u better than me_

**Jehan, 4.34pm:** _I LOVE YOU YOU ARE A GODDESS <3 <3 <3_

 

 

Half an hour before the slam was due to start, the Musain was buzzing and Feuilly and Musichetta had their hands full behind the bar. Tonight’s band was an enthusiastic little rockabilly group, complete with a double bass almost bigger than the woman playing it, and they had the room bursting with high spirits and barely contained energy. Courfeyrac had started the dancing almost as soon as they’d taken the stage, and now he twirled and fluttered through the swaying bodies, taking the hand of anyone who caught his eye for a few dizzying steps before moving on. Marius was sitting with Enjolras and Combeferre at the bar, discussing a planned rally or something with their eyes alight with hope, and Joly, Bousset and Bahorel stood by the window, laughing uproariously at one of Joly’s medical school stories. 

Feuilly was halfway through pouring a pint when he glanced towards the entrance and his breath caught in his throat. Jehan stood at the top of the stairs, surveying the bar with a sparkle in their eyes and a smile playing on their lips - their hair was loose today, falling almost to their waist in soft curls, and they wore a glittering gold top that left a tattooed shoulder exposed with jeans so tight they could have been painted on, and - _sweet merciful gods,_ were they wearing _heels?!_

He jolted out of his daze as the pint overflowed and dripped unpleasantly up his arm, turning back to the customer quickly and hoping the dim lights didn’t reveal his blush. He chanced another glance over as he handed the man his change; Grantaire and Eponine had appeared behind Jehan now, Eponine poking a finger at their narrow waist and whispering something in their ear that made them laugh and bat her away. Grantaire grinned at Feuilly and waved before grabbing Jehan’s hand and making to pull them over. 

Enjolras, Marius and Combeferre turned to see who Feuilly was waving at, and all three of them leapt off their stools delightedly to hug Jehan and Eponine. Grantaire felt suddenly very out of place until Marius put a lanky arm around him. 

“I hear you tell great stories,” he said by way of greeting, grinning down at Grantaire. 

“Only embarrassing ones about Eponine,” he replied, winking at her and grinning back at Marius. The kid was a huge dork, but Grantaire could have kissed him for his kindness; for a moment there, Enjolras had looked determined to cold-shoulder him completely, and now he turned to Grantaire and Marius with a grudging smile. 

“Yes, you missed out last week, Marius.” He ducked his head, though, before Grantaire could catch his eye, and turned back to Jehan. “You look especially beautiful tonight, Prouvaire.”

“Look at my shoes!!” Jehan popped a foot in the air, turning to show off their heels, thin fingers fluttering around the little white unicorn head. “Eponine gave them to me. Aren’t they freaking amazing?!”

“Wow,” Combeferre deadpanned. “They’re... wow. They’re something.”

“Are they unicorns? On shoes?? I... but... why?” Marius spluttered.

Jehan put their foot back down and folded their arms across their chest. “Philistines.”

“They’re lovely, Jehan,” Enjolras grinned. “They’re very _you._ ” 

“Oh my god,” Eponine cried suddenly, waving frantically at someone over Grantaire’s shoulder. “Cosette!”

The group turned curiously to see the newcomer; the vivacious-looking blonde girl had her blonde hair pinned in a 50’s-style updo complete with an ice blue scarf that matched her petticoated skirt and lipstick perfectly, and her eyeliner was almost too sharp to be real. Her round cheeks were flushed and dimpled when she laughed breathlessly. “You didn’t warn me about the stairs, you cheeky thing!” she scolded Eponine as the taller girl rushed to hug her hello. 

“Sorry, babe, sorry,” Eponine gushed, suddenly flustered. “I’m so glad you came. Oh my god. Look at you! You match the band! Oh, come and meet everyone - guys, this is Cosette.”

It was Jehan who jumped forwards first to grab her hand and press a kiss to her cheek. “I’m Jehan, and wow, can I just say, Eponine said you were pretty but darling, you are a _masterpiece._ Is that Lime Crime lipstick?”

“It totally is! Well spotted! And - oh my god, oh my _god,_ those _shoes -_ no, don’t tell me, let me guess. Irregular Choice?”

“ _Yes!!”_

“Oh my god, we are friends. We are automatically friends. Is that okay? Can we be friends??”

“Holy fuckin shit,” Grantaire spluttered through his laughter as Jehan threw their arms around Cosette. “Eponine, what have you done?”

“I should have kept those shoes,” she muttered, grinning - and then she caught sight of Marius. He was staring at Cosette, his mouth hanging open dumbly and his eyes as wide as saucers. She looked up at him as she let go of Jehan, and smiled shyly.

“Hello,” she said, holding her hand out for him to shake.

Marius shut his mouth and then opened it again a couple of times before he spoke. “God, you’re beautiful. I mean, sorry - I’m Marius Pontmercy. Hello,” he grasped her hand and for a moment it looked like he wanted to bend and kiss it, but stopped himself. “Do you like poetry? I mean, of course you do, you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. I think. Did you come to watch the poetry? You must be here to see Eponine. She’s fantastic. Do you write poetry? You should. I bet it would be beautiful.”

“Marius,” Enjolras interrupted. “Marius, breathe.”

Marius was blushing to the roots of his hair, and he suddenly realized he hadn’t let go of her hand and dropped it as though it had burned him. She was trying very, very hard to suppress her silent giggles, and failing spectacularly. 

“You must excuse him,” Combeferre said to her, smiling kindly. “What Marius lacks in social skills, he makes up for in honesty.”

“Social skills are overrated,” she replied, and gave Marius a wink before shaking Combeferre’s hand.

Cosette was charming, and the whole group was immediately taken with her, including Courfeyrac when he got tired of dancing and drifted over. It didn’t take long to have her leading a conversation on unrealistic beauty standards and the oppressiveness of the fashion industry - Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Marius were hanging off her every word, but Grantaire couldn’t help noticing that Eponine had gone very quiet. He sighed. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

He slipped his arm around her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

She chuckled darkly under her breath. “Hell fuckin no.”

“Pontmercy is a twit. He’ll calm down.”

“He won’t. Look at him. Look at _her._ ”

Grantaire looked. She was right - all four men were listening intently to Cosette, but while Combeferre, Enjolras and Courfeyrac were nodding and frowning at appropriate points (Courfeyrac was even clicking his fingers and saying “amen, sister, amen”), Marius was staring at her with something akin to wonder on his face, still as stone, looking as if he hardly dared breathe. Cosette, in turn, looking nothing short of delighted to be recieving so much attention, would pause and look down with a coy smile every time she met Marius’s eyes before continuing. Jehan had noticed this wordless exchange, too, and had started to drift out of the conversation to throw concerned glances at Eponine.

“Hey,” they whispered. “I want to say hi to that gorgeous bartender. Do you guys want a drink?”

“Please,” said Eponine gratefully.

The three of them slipped over to the bar, where Feuilly was waiting, biting his lip against the grin that threatened to spread across his face as he looked Jehan up and down appreciatively. “Hello, beautiful. Beautifuls, plural,” he added hastily, nodding at Grantaire and Eponine. 

“Hello yourself,” Jehan smiled. “We need drinks. Cocktails, I think. Something... sunshiney.” 

“Sunshiney?” Feuilly looked doubtfully at Grantaire and Eponine. The latter rolled her eyes. “That might mean different things for all three of you.”

“Yes, you’re right.” Jehan hummed thoughtfully and looked between their friends. 

“I don’t want sunshiney,” Eponine growled.

“You _need_ sunshiney.”

“Why don’t you surprise us?” Grantaire asked Feuilly, raising an eyebrow.

“That I can do.” The redhead grinned at Grantaire and winked at Jehan before drifting over to the spirits. 

Jehan blushed and fiddled self-consiously with their hair for a moment before turning to Eponine. “What poem are you doing tonight, babe?”

“I have something new.” Eponine leaned on the bar and rolled her head, cracking the bones in her neck. “Wrote it yesterday. I thought... I thought Cosette might like it.”

“I’m sure she will,” Jehan smiled, but she looked down at her feet without smiling back. 

“What about you, Jehan?” Grantaire asked, and their smile turned a little shy. 

“I have a new one too,” they murmured. They looked up suddenly to grin at Grantaire. “Oh - Enjolras is doing one tonight, too! Wait till you hear him, oh my god.”

_Oh, fuck._ Grantaire was already uncomfortably infatuated with the fiery blond MC, who had totally heard his name and looked over to them curiously. _He didn’t need it to get any worse._

Jehan was waving Enjolras over to them. “Enj, let me get you a drink!”

Enjolras strode over, smiling at Jehan and Eponine and avoiding Grantaire’s eyes. “No, no, I can’t drink before a reading. Maybe afterwards.”

Grantaire didn’t know why he said it. Maybe he just wanted Enjolras to look at him _so badly,_ even if it was a glare. “Bit of a lightweight, Apollo? One drink enough to throw you off your game?”

Sure enough, Enjolras turned to him with a stare so cold it could freeze hell. “Don’t you dare speak to me like refraining from nightly binges is something to be ashamed of.”

Grantaire snorted. “Hey, no shame here. Gotta love a cheap date, right?” and he gave Enjolras a lecherous wink. 

The blond turned away in disgust. 

“He’s only teasing you, Enj,” Jehan assured him, shooting Grantaire a warning look. Eponine looked as though she was trying not to laugh. 

“I’m going to set up,” Enjolras told them loftily, and stalked away with his head held deliberately high. 

Jehan glared at Grantaire and had just opened their mouth to say something when Feuilly reappeared. 

“Okay, so - Eponine, I made you a Bloody Maria-”

“What the fuck is a Bloody Maria?” Eponine asked, eyeing the red liquid in the tall glass being slid over to her. 

“It’s a Bloody Mary, essentially, but with tequila.”

Eponine’s eyes lit up and she took a long sip. “Mmm. Oh my god. _Yes.”_

Feuilly grinned. “Jehan, this is an Apple Spice.”

Jehan took their glass - which Grantaire thought looked rather like an apple pie masquerading as a drink - with a squeak of excitement and plucked out the cinnamon stick curiously. “What _is_ it?”

“There’s some drambuie, some apple cider, and some - uh... some... ginger...” Feuilly’s voice seemed to stick in his throat and color rose to his cheeks as Jehan looked him dead in the eye and _licked_ up the cinnamon stick, before putting the end in their mouth and hollowing their cheeks as they sucked the remaining liquid off.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Jehan, have you no shame?!” Eponine hissed. Jehan ignored her and smiled guilelessly at Feuilly.  
“It’s lovely.” 

Feuilly let out a long breath and then cleared his throat and turned to Grantaire. “For you, my friend, this is called a Dutchman. I, er... I’m rather making assumptions, here, but this rather _your_ drink - brooding, bittersweet and a little bit sexy.” He winked when Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “I know your type. Go on, try it.”

“I’d be quite happy with a glass of red,” Grantaire grumbled, but he took a sip anyway and Feuilly laughed when his face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You are a god among men,” he told him reverently, leaning over to shake his hand. “I’m converted.”

“Come on, Enjolras looks ready to start, let’s find somewhere to sit.”

It was no surprise that Cosette ended up sitting with Marius, squished on the couch between he and Courfeyrac and Combeferre. When Eponine approached she had looked apologetic, even making to stand up so that she could go and sit with her, but Bahorel called out to her from the next couch, caught her hand and pulled her down beside him, insisting that he refused to be stuck on a couch with Joly, Bousset and Musichetta by himself. (The triad didn’t respond to this - Bousset had Musichetta on his lap and was being thoroughly kissed by her while Joly gently explored the tendons in his neck with his teeth. They didn’t even look up when Eponine and Bahorel started loudly making bets on how long it would take them to retire to the storeroom.)

Grantaire took the armchair next to Combeferre and patted his knee for Jehan to sit down. They made a show of frowning at him and putting their nose in the air before they did.

“What?”

“You are such a little shit, ‘Taire.”

“It was a joke!”

“Enjolras wasn’t laughing.”

“Enjolras has a stick up his arse.”

Jehan tried and failed to bite back a smile. “Well... only sometimes. You were still a little shit.”

“Oh, god, really?” Combeferre groaned, looking at Grantaire despairingly. “What was it this time?”

“Nothing! I called him a lightweight, and it was a joke. He can’t be that bothered by it, surely.”

“He might be, actually,” Jehan murmured, nodding towards the stage, where Enjolras was in the final stages of setting up. Sure enough, his cheeks were flushed and he was getting excessively frustrated with the mic cord. As they watched, he tugged his fingers roughly through his hair, leaving it wild and disheveled-looking. Grantaire gulped.

“I really do wish you wouldn’t antagonize my best friend,” Combeferre told him sternly. “For some reason, he seems to actually care about the stupid things you say.”

“No he doesn’t,” Grantaire replied automatically, without taking his eyes off Enjolras. Combeferre and Jehan shared a Look. 

 

“Good evening, _mes amis,_ and welcome to Voices in the Attic. My name is Enjolras, for those who don’t know me, and we have a truly inspired night ahead of us tonight, so we’re going to get straight into it - who’s up first? Courfeyrac? Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between, give him some applause...”

 

Courfeyrac’s words had an oddly nostalgic feel to them tonight, though as funny and lighthearted as ever, and Combeferre’s seemed rather more romantic than usual, and more focused than his usual abstract concepts. 

“He’s totally talking about Courf,” Jehan whispered in Grantaire’s ear, and at the line ‘ _Sunshine, I’m your magnifying glass and we’ll burn all the doors they closed on us’_ he realised that they were right. Courfeyrac, on the couch next to them, was wearing a rather goofy grin and his ears were bright red, and he actually grabbed a cushion and hid his face at the words _‘sweet thing, holy terror, to sin with you is sacred.’_

“Someone’s totally getting laid tonight,” Grantaire muttered when Combeferre returned to the couch only to have Courfeyrac grab him by the lapels and kiss him almost violently.   
“Are you kidding? Try _every_ night and _twice_ on special occasions. Their sex life is _amazing.”_

“How do you know that?!”

“Courfeyrac told me. It’s not exactly a secret, look at them.” 

Courfeyrac was on Combeferre’s lap, now, and the taller man had a firm grip on his arse. They didn’t look like they were coming up for air any time soon. Cosette, on the other end of the couch, was watching out of the corner of her eye with mild interest, but nobody else seemed particularly surprised or bothered. “Point,” Grantaire conceded.

“Shh, Marius is up.”

 

It was fairly normal for Marius to be slightly nervous about taking the stage, but tonight he looked positively terrified. “Erm. H-hello, everyone...” He looked towards Eponine for reassurance, feeling his courage grow with her smile and gentle nod, and then at Cosette, who was watching him with eyes wide with anticipation. “Uh, so... Did anyone know that the big park near the station used to be a graveyard? It’s true, they just took out all the tombstones and covered it all over with lawns and flowerbeds.” Eponine grinned as a murmur ran around the room. She had told him that - she had taken him there last full moon for a midnight picnic, and he had become so jittery and pale until she gave him her pentagram necklace to wear. “So yeah, this is about that. It’s called ‘sorry I woke you’.”

When Eponine took the stage after right after Marius, she tried not to look down at he and Cosette’s rapt, attentive faces and intertwined hands and tried not to feel like a traitor as she smiled a hollow smile and recited a poem that he would never, could never know was about him. 

 

 

Enjolras took the stage second-last, with only Jehan left to follow after him, and whole bar seemed to hold itself straighter, as though standing to attention under the blond’s gaze. And he commanded it, Grantaire thought to himself - the set of his shoulders and the tension in his jaw was that of a General, and his eyes were fierce as he stepped close to the mic and looked down as though they were soldiers under his command, waiting eagerly for a pep talk before marching to meet their deaths. 

He started to speak, and his voice, though always musical, was as clear and strident as a brass band, and Grantaire felt his gut clench and his heart pound in his throat. He stared enraptured at the man on the stage as his straight back and squared shoulders gave way to emphatic gestures which became bigger, bolder, _louder_ until they took his whole body, and his poem was a dance of righteous fury and holy wrath because he wasn’t a General any more, oh no, not a Commander, not even a King - somewhere along the way Enjolras had become an angel, a heavenly messenger sent by a god Grantaire didn’t believe in. His wings were his words, and they carried them all - could words give strength? Grantaire had never for a moment believed so, until Enjolras paused and he chanced a look around the room to see rapturous hope blazing like a torch on the face of every waif and stranger gathered here. He’d never realized what a strange rag-tag bunch the Musian attracted, what an odd sense of community had built around this poetry thing, gathering punks and hipsters and trashy trendsetters, artists and anarchists and liberals, freaks and queers from all walks of life and all they really had in common was a mutual dislike for the status quo. And really, Grantaire thought, as the angel on the stage blew syllables like sparks in a tinder-box to blaze where they may, what more could they possibly need?

The applause was thunderous when he left the stage - Bahorel and Eponine were stomping their feet on the ground, and Feuilly was thumping the bar and cheering wildly. Grantaire felt like he was going to combust. He gripped Jehan’s sweater and tugged on it frantically.

“‘Taire? What’s wrong?”

“He’s incredible,” Grantaire gasped. “Jesus, Jehan, he’s fucking _divine,_ I can’t, I can’t deal with it, Jehan, I can’t-”

“Enjolras!” Jehan yelled, catching the blond before he slipped away to the back of the room. “Come here!”

“Oh Christ, no, don’t bring him here-”

Jehan slipped off Grantaire’s lap to throw their arms around Enjolras, who looked slightly embarrassed by all the applause but otherwise unmoved. “That was fantastic, you incredible boy.”

“Thankyou.” Enjolras hugged them back tightly, and buried his face in their shoulder, suddenly vulnerable. “Thankyou, Jehan.”

“Sit with Grantaire while I do mine,” Jehan whispered in his ear. “Please,” he continued when Enjolras froze up. “He loved hearing you. Please give him a chance.”

“Okay,” Enjolras muttered back, after only a slight hesitation, and pulled away from Jehan to offer Grantaire a too-bright smile. “Hello, R.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure if he was going to be sick or faint - possibly both. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears and everything around Enjolras seemed to have blurred and faded into insignificance. “Hello,” he replied, and winced when his voice sounded strangled even to his own ears. “Ahem - er - that was. Wow. That was pretty fucking great, actually.”

Enjolras smiled, looking slightly more sincere this time, and gestured to the arm of the chair. “May I?”

“Please.”

Enjolras perched himself somewhat stiffly on the edge of the chair, grinning when Combeferre and Courfeyrac called over their congratulations, and settled in as Jehan took to the stage.

Grantaire felt that perhaps he ought to feel guilty for being unable to focus on Jehan’s voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, somehow, not when his own arm was mere inches away from Enjolras’s denim-clad thigh, not when Enjolras’s finger was idly tracing the seam of his jeans and he kept catching a flash of a tattoo inside his wrist that he couldn’t quite make out. From this distance, Grantaire could smell him. He smelled almost cold somehow, clean and crisp and slightly peppery - Grantaire imagined that smell on his own pillow and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. 

And then everyone was applauding - Jehan’s poem must be over. Enjolras looked down at him with a frown.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Grantaire replied, but it came out like a squeak.

“You’re shaking.”

“Am I?”

Enjolras put a hand on his shoulder and Grantaire’s skin tingled through his shirt. “Want to get some air?”

“Yes,” he replied, because he would follow Enjolras anywhere, to the ends of the earth if he asked.

 

Jehan watched Enjolras hastily reintroduce the band and then slip out to the balcony with Grantaire in tow, and crossed their fingers behind their back and sent a silent plea for luck to whichever kind spirits might be listening. _Please don’t let ‘Taire fuck this up._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE THIS IS OKAY BECAUSE I WROTE IT ON MY DAD'S FARM IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE WITH NO PHONE SIGNAL AND NO INTERNET IN BETWEEN DOING MANLY SHIT LIKE CHASING ESCAPED COWS AND GETTING THE QUAD BIKE BOGGED IN THREE FEET OF MUD. I MIGHT HAVE GONE A BIT MAD. I HOPE IT'S NOT TOO OBVIOUS. 
> 
> AND I'M REALLY SORRY TO EVERYONE HOLDING OUT FOR COURFERRE SMUT. Idk i am so bad at that shit - i try to imagine them and they look at me like 'um do u mind??' OKAY THEY'RE NOT INTO EXHIBITIONISM I GUESS IDK but i better get the hang of that shit soon because THERE IS SO MUCH SMUT I WANT TO WRITE FOR THIS FIC UGH UGH UGH so if anyone has any tips oh my god pls be my friend
> 
> yeah i'm on tumblr and stuff, wardrobespierre.tumblr.com
> 
> I LOVE FEEDBACK I FUCKING THRIVE ON THAT SHIT OKAY PLS DON'T HESITATE TO TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK


	6. "Man, fuck feelings."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine can't handle this shit, Feuilly an idiot but Grantaire is much, much worse, and Enjolras is scary when he's mad but actually Jehan is too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY BUT THIS ONE IS NOT CUTE. THIS ONE IS INCREDIBLY FRUSTRATING AND A LIL BIT ANGSTY. BIG ASS WARNINGS FOR MILD TRANSPHOBIA/CIS BULLSHIT. 
> 
> Now this one, this one is going out to Claire (GrantearingMeApart) because she loves her some angry trans!jolras and she's been so supportive and super mad cute <3

“Cosette! You look to me like a woman who knows how to dance,” Courfeyrac exclaimed, extricating himself from Combeferre and leaping to his feet as the band struck up. “Do me the honor?” 

Cosette giggled and took his outstretched hand. “Sure.” 

Marius grinned as he watched Courfeyrac sweep her onto the floor, her skirt billowing when he spun her dizzyingly fast and he reached to grab Eponine’s hand on the next couch. “‘Ponine, ‘Ponine, come here -” he tugged her over to him and wrapped his arms around her. “She’s wonderful,” he sighed.

_Are you fucking kidding me right now,_ Eponine thought bitterly, leaning into his embrace despite herself. 

“Where did you find her? She’s so perfect, oh Eponine, Eponine, I think I’m in love-”

“Give me a break, you big dork, you’ve just met her,” Eponine muttered, hoping he couldn’t hear the edge of tears in her voice.

“She’s just so _beautiful -”_

“I know.” _Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry, goddamn it, don’t cry_ -

“Marius! Eponine!” Cosette called to them from the dancefloor, waving them over. 

“You go,” Eponine told Marius, giving him a nudge. “I have to... I have to talk to R about something.”

“Come and find us after, yeah?” Marius asks, letting go of her and standing up.

She smiles a watery smile. “Sure.”

She thanks the merciful gods for the shadowy little alcove on the other side of the bar that everyone forgets about, where she can bury her face in her arms and cry freely out of sight. 

 

Feuilly starts when Musichetta slips behind the bar and swats him with a dishcloth - he’d been staring at Jehan, who had been dragged onto the dancefloor by Courfeyrac and was swaying their hips with surprising grace. He hadn’t been able to tear his eyes from the poet since their reading - their piece, whether it was the carefully chosen words or the delivery that was somehow breathless and zen at the same time, contained all the thrill of a freefall and all the peaceful delight of sunlight on skin, and it had taken Feuilly several minutes to realize that it was about last week’s trolley adventures. His heart still hadn’t slowed from that shock of awareness - he had been wondering privately if Joly had any tips to help him calm it, and whether he might even be enjoying it’s frantic racing a little.   
“Oi!”

She smirks knowingly at him. “I think it’s your breaktime, Casanova.”

“What? I had a break earlier -”

“I literally will not be able to sleep at night if I don’t let you go dance with Prouvaire.”

Feuilly grinned at her. “‘Chetta, you’re an angel.”

“I know. Why are you still here? Go, dance with your poet!” She flicks the cloth at him again as he skips eagerly out from behind the bar. He recognizes the tune the band are playing, an old Chuck Berry song - the one from _Pulp Fiction -_ and it all seems far too perfect. 

Courfeyrac sees him make his way over and grins, grabbing Jehan’s shoulders and planting a kiss on their cheek before disappearing into the crowd. Jehan looks momentarily confused by their friend’s quick exit before Feuilly catches their hand and they turn to him with a delighted smile on their face.

“Feuilly -”

His name from Jehan’s lips, spoken with that sweet, breathy voice, might just be the nicest sound Feuilly has ever heard. “Dance with me?”

Jehan’s smile turns sly and they step closer, placing Feuilly’s hand on their hip and their own on his shoulder. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Feuilly thanked the gods for those dance classes the eccentric Ms Delphine ran once a month at the shelter, thanked the gods for the kids who actually liked them and made him practice with them, and for Jehan’s natural sense of rhythm - because they moved together like water, and it felt easy, it felt natural, almost automatic, which was lucky because Feuilly couldn’t possibly be expected to focus when Jehan’s top was slipping further down their arm, revealing more of the intricate, brightly colored ink on their shoulder - _sunflowers, yellow and green and black -_ and they were _so close_ and their eyes were _so bright_ and they smelled _edible._

_He could kiss them. He could. He could put a hand in their hair and close the distance between their lips, it would be so easy, and so, so good -_

_\- and then what?_ A sliver of ice ran down Feuilly’s spine and settled in his stomach. _And then go back to work, and go to the shelter tomorrow and then back to the bar after that, and do the same thing every single day for the foreseeable future - he barely had time to eat and sleep, let alone date the most beautiful, ethereal creature he had ever met. No, there was no way he could possibly make this worth Jehan’s while. He had to stop leading them on._

“I should get back to work,” he muttered, pulling away slightly as the song ended. 

“Oh,” Jehan said, and Feuilly cringed internally at the mild disappointment in their voice. “Well... Thankyou for dancing with me.”

“Courfeyrac probably wants you back,” he said, avoiding Jehan’s eyes, and slipped away to the bar when they turned to look for their friend.

“Hail the conquering hero!” Musichetta cried as he returned to his post. He ignored her until she cornered him by the till. “Well? Have you kissed them yet? Need to leave early so you can take them home?”

“No, and no,” he muttered miserably, trying to slip past her and failing.

“What’s wrong with you? Why on earth not?”

“I don’t have time for a relationship, ‘Chetta,” he sighed. “They’d be disappointed.”

Musichetta stared at him for a moment, and then turned on her heel, throwing her hands towards the ceiling. “Jesus Lord give me strength - _men!!”_ Bahorel, who was waiting by the bar, flinched and stared at her in shock. “You - Tiny - this damn fool here is _your_ mate, _you_ can talk sense into him! I’m going to change the keg!” She threw her dishtowel down on the bar and stomped out into the back room.

“What the fuck did you do?” Bahorel asked, nonplussed.

Feuilly sighed. “The right thing, I think.” _I hope._ “I’ve got to stop leading Jehan on.”

Bahorel stared at him open-mouthed. “But... I thought you liked them?!”

“I do. I like them a lot, but dude... I don’t have time for a relationship. I really don’t. And a one night stand would never be enough for me, not with Jehan, and anything more serious than that, I’d only let them down.” Feuilly ran his hand through his hair and leaned his head on the wall with a thud. 

Bahorel frowned at him for a long moment before leveling a finger at him. “I’ve done a lot of dating in my time, my friend, and let me tell you - chemistry like you two have doesn’t come along often. You let Jehan get away, you’ll regret it all your life.”

Feuilly watched Jehan slip out to the balcony, arm in arm and deep in conversation with Courfeyrac. “I’ll regret it all my life if I hurt them.”

“You are being uncharacteristically stupid,” Bahorel told him sternly. 

Feuilly shrugged. “Another pint?” 

“Yes - but this conversation is not over. You and me, Ginge, we’re going to have a heart to heart on your next night off.”

“If you say so.”

 

Things had been going so well between Enjolras and Grantaire in that short-lived half hour or so that they were alone on the balcony. Grantaire had told him one of the funnier stories about his school days with Jehan, which had lead to a conversation about the sub-par education system and poorly trained teachers, and Grantaire found himself pointing out flaws that Enjolras hadn’t mentioned, to which the blond enthusiastically agreed. When Jehan and Courfeyrac joined them and Jehan shared around their clove-flavored cigarettes (murmuring something like ‘my body is a temple and these are incense’), Grantaire caught Enjolras watching him with a gentle half-smile on his lips.  
“What?”

Enjolras shook his head. “Just... I thought your eyes were brown, but they’ve got some green in them.”

Grantaire ducked his head. “They’re weird... one is greener than the other.”

“Show me?”

He raised his head and looked into Enjolras’s pale blue eyes, letting him stare intently. _His eyes are like crystal,_ Grantaire thought, feeling his mouth go dry. _Cut like diamonds, hard and clear and perfect._

“So they are,” Enjolras agreed softy. “The right one is much more green.” He smiled at Grantaire. “Pretty.”

“What?”

“Your eyes. They’re... they’re nice.” A touch of color rose to Enjolras’s cheeks and he looked away quickly. Across the table, Jehan giggled. “Courf,” Enjolras said suddenly. “Did you hear back from LaMarque today?”

Courfeyrac’s face twisted ruefully. “Yes, I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Because... it’s not good news,” Courfeyrac sighed. “I thought I’d tell you tomorrow before the meeting, so it didn’t bring tonight down.”

Enjolras waved his words aside. “What did he _say,_ Courf?”

“The board rejected it.” Courfeyrac scrubbed a hand over his face. “Out of hand, apparently. Wouldn’t even agree to consider it. The reason given was that they can’t fit it in the budget, but-”

“But they can afford to build a new stadium and an extension on the cafeteria,” Enjolras growled. Courfeyrac nodded miserably.

“Is this the bathrooms?” Jehan whispered.

“What bathrooms?” Grantaire frowned.

“We need unisex bathrooms on campus,” Courfeyrac told him in a low voice, watching Enjolras cautiously. The blond man was glaring into his drink, his cheeks flushing pinker by the second. “For trans students, and anyone else who feels uncomfortable in gendered bathrooms, you know?”

“We’ve been demanding them for _three years,_ ” Enjolras exploded, slamming his hand down on the table and looking up with blazing eyes. “We’ve done petitions, awareness campaigns, rallies - they’re _ignored everything -”_

“Is it really that big a deal?” Grantaire asked. “They’re obviously not going to listen, so why not just cut your losses and move on?”

He refused to flinch at the glare Enjolras turned on him. “Is it really that big a deal?!” the blond repeated incredulously. “Yes, Grantaire, I’d say being unable to use the bathroom safely is a pretty big fucking deal.”

“Oh, please,” Grantaire sneered. “Christ, the things you bleeding-heart social justice warriors fixate on.”

“You wanna tell me what the fuck that is supposed to mean?!” Enjolras spat, looking absolutely livid.

“Grantaire,” Jehan murmured warningly, but Grantaire ignored them.

“It means you’d really think that the trans people getting beat up and raped and murdered every day would be a bigger priority, but no, you’re fretting over where they can take a piss.”

“And who the _fuck_ are you to tell me how I should and shouldn’t be standing up for trans people, you cis sack of shit?!” 

Grantaire let out a mirthless laugh. “Is that how you get sympathy for the trans cause then, is it, Apollo? Call people cis sacks of shit if they don’t worship every word that falls from your mouth?”

Enjolras stands, knocking his chair over. “Call me ‘Apollo’ one more time, you prick-”

Courfeyrac leaps to his feet and grabs Enjolras’s shoulders before he can finish his threat. “That’s enough, come on,” he murmurs, hanging on doggedly when Enjolras tries to shake him off. “Dude,” he says sternly to Grantaire. “Not cool. Very fucking not cool.” And he steers Enjolras back into the bar, despite the blond’s protests, leaving Grantaire and Jehan alone.

“Well,” Jehan said, and their voice was colder than Grantaire had ever heard it. “I’ve heard a lot of shit out of your mouth over the years, but I never thought I’d hear _that._ ”

Grantaire fidgeted uncomfortably. Jehan was pale and there were tears gathering in their eyes, though their voice was steady. “Someone has to play devils advocate-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Jehan spat. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Grantaire. No one has to play devils advocate.” Grantaire’s heart sank as Jehan stubbed out their cigarette viciously. “I don’t know who you think gave you the right to speak for trans people, anyway-”

“Well, who gave him?!” Grantaire protested a little desperately. Jehan rolled their eyes. 

“For fuck’s sake - Enjolras _is_ trans.”

“What?!”

“Enjolras. Is. A transgender. Man.” Jehan spoke deliberately slowly as though Grantaire was slow on the uptake. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Because it wasn’t important until you put your big attention-seeking man-child foot in your mouth!” 

Grantaire fell silent.

“And by the fucking way,” Jehan continued. “You know very well how big a deal bathrooms are, and by denying it right in front of me you invalidate one of the biggest stresses in my life, whether you meant what you said or not.”

“Jehan -”

“Grantaire, darling, I am literally so goddamn angry with you right now,” they sighed, rubbing their temples with long, thin fingers. 

Grantaire cringed, and slipped as quietly as he could towards the door. Jehan was a patient person and they didn’t often get angry, but he knew that when they did they preferred to be left very well alone. Enjolras was standing at the bar between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who both had an arm around him - Grantaire briefly considered going up to apologize, maybe if he let Enjolras hit him he could be forgiven - but his nerve failed him, and he disappeared down the stairs and out into the night. 

 

 

Bahorel thought for a moment he was hearing things - in between songs, there was something out of place with the typical buzz of chatter and laughter and the occasional clink of glasses. Was that... was someone _crying?_ He glanced around - Enjolras, at the other end of the bar, was red in the face and clearly fuming, but there was no sign of tears in his eyes. Everyone else looked quite happy, or at least calm. He looked surreptitiously up at the rafters, half expecting to see some ghostly specter hanging above them - the building was old, after all - but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He frowned and followed the sound around the corner of the bar, to that hidden little alcove everyone forgot about.

There, at the table with her head on her arm and her shoulders shaking, was-

“Eponine?!”

She looked up, her face blotchy and tear-streaked. “Fuck’s sake,” she choked, scrubbing the tears away roughly with the back of her hand. “Can’t a girl have a cry in peace around here?”

Bahorel stared for a moment, then sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him immediately. 

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked gently.

“No.”

“Okay. You don’t have to.”

She was silent for a moment, letting him rub her arm comfortingly, then burst out, “Fuck her for a stupid, pretentious, bourgeois little cow, anyway.”

Bahorel froze. “I am not hearing this. I am not hearing Eponine the Feminist Queen spitting _girl hate,_ and I am especially not hearing it about the girl I think you’re talking about.”

Eponine groaned and scrubbed a hand over her face, but didn’t reply.

“It’s jealousy talking and you do not mean it, and you will not repeat it,” Bahorel told her firmly.

She sighed. “Yeah... I’m sorry. That was actually a hugely shitty thing to say and I really didn’t mean it. I like her. I like her a lot.”

“Seems like everyone does, she’s a charming kid.”

“No, I mean... I think I _like_ like her. Like, maybe as much as Pontmercy, like.” Eponine turned her face into Bahorel’s broad shoulder, hiding her face in embarrassment even as she said it.

Bahorel whistled. “You’ve fancied Pontmercy for months.”

“I know.”

He gave her shoulder a gentle shake. “Come on, kiddo. What would they say at the gym if they saw little Toughnut lookin’ all teary? What would they say, huh?”

Eponine lifted her face with a thin smile. “Harden the fuck up?”

“Harden the fuck up,” Bahorel agreed. 

Eponine chuckled, wiping the last of her tears away on her sleeve. “Man, fuck feelings.”

“Fuck them indeed.” He drained the last of his pint for emphasis. “Hey, you wanna blow this joint? Come back to mine and watch something with explosions and plot holes?”

She grinned at him. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

 

 

Feuilly raised his eyebrows when Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Combeferre approached the bar with faces like thunderclouds. Well, Courfeyrac and Combeferre looked like thunderclouds - Enjolras looked like a minefield. 

“Hey, firecracker,” he greeted the blond, keeping his voice gentle. “What’s up?”

Enjolras raised blazing eyes to meet his. “I have a name,” he bit out, and Feuilly blanched. Enjolras didn’t particularly embrace nicknames in general, but he tolerated them happily from a select few - Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan and, until now, apparently, himself. Feuilly looked at Combeferre, puzzled, but the bespectacled man shook his head minutely, signaling Feuilly to leave it be. 

“Sorry, Enjolras,” he said, turning back to the blond with a placating smile. “Hey, I’ve been swotting up on cocktail recipes lately - can I test one out on you three?”

Enjolras didn’t reply, didn’t even accept his apology, just looked back down at his knuckles clenched white on the bar.

“That would be awesome, bro,” Courfeyrac answered for him, sending Feuilly a reassuring smile as he drew his arm tighter around his friend’s waist. 

Feuilly nodded and busied himself with bottles of liquor.

“Okay, Enjolras,” Combeferre murmured. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

The blond huffed a breath through his nose, but still said nothing.

“I’ll tell him if you don’t,” Courfeyrac prompted, and, receiving no response, turned to Combeferre. “Grantaire pissed him off.”

“Oh, Enjolras, you take him too seriously-” Combeferre started, but he was interrupted by Courfeyrac and Enjolras at almost exactly the same time.

“Uh-uh, ‘Ferre, bad call-”

“ _I take him too seriously?!”_

Several patrons turned curiously at Enjolras’s raised voice. Combeferre hastily tried to calm him. “Okay, sorry, obviously I’m missing something here-”

“That _fucking arsehole,_ I swear to _god-”_

“He said unisex bathrooms weren’t important,” Courfeyrac told Combeferre, talking over Enjolras’s ranting. “And he said it in a very rude, very patronising way.”

Combeferre groaned. “Christ. Where is he?”

“Better be _six thousand feet away from me-”_

“I think he’s still with Jehan-” Courfeyrac started to say, but broke off when Jehan drifted through the doors and over to them, alone. Their face was pale and their eyes a little red, but they looked a lot calmer than Courfeyrac felt. “Oh. Or not.”

Enjolras rounded on Jehan as they approached, his pretty lips twisting cruelly. “ _Give him a chance_ ,” he mimicked Jehan’s words from earlier. “For fuck’s sake, Jehan -”

Jehan drew their thin shoulders back and met Enjolras’s eyes unflinchingly. “You don’t get to bite my head off for a situation I had no control over, Enjolras. You can stop right there,” they told him, sounding rather a lot like Combeferre. Enjolras glared for a second, and then visibly sagged, his fury dropping away and leaving him looking deflated. Jehan softened, cupping his cheek in their hand and smiling sadly. “Grantaire went home to be ashamed of himself. And... probably drink himself into oblivion.” Their face suddenly crumpled, and Courfeyrac threw his free arm around their shoulders, drawing his friends into a group hug as Jehan dissolved into sobs. 

Combeferre rubbed soothing circles into both Jehan and Enjolras’s backs, co-ordination born of a long standing position as group shoulder-to-cry-on. “Deep breaths, Jehan - Enjolras is going to breathe with you, aren’t you, Enj? That’s it. You’re both doing great.” 

Jehan rested their forehead against Enjolras’s as their breathing started to slow, pretending not to see the mirroring tears in the blond’s eyes. They knew he hadn’t meant to snap at them, not _really_ \- Enjolras had always had trouble controlling his temper, and Grantaire really had been awful. Jehan could hardly believe it, and yet they still grew more and more worried by the second about the state of self-loathing their friend was probably working himself into. It was all they could do to keep their breathing in time with Enjolras’s, knowing he needed that calm and reassurance just as much as they did, silently thanking the gods for Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s arms around them both. 

When they drew apart, all looking significantly calmer, it was to find Feuilly watching them all with his head on one side, looking both concerned and affectionate. “You kids gonna be okay?” he asked. Enjolras nodded, re-approaching the bar and smiling at Feuilly a little sheepishly. The freckled man grinned back - he could read the apology all over Enjolras’s handsome face, he didn’t need to hear it. He gestured at the four wine glasses lined up on the bar, full of something pinkish-red and fizzy, garnished with slices of lemon and orange. “Chambord and soda. It’s called a French Summer, you guys looked like you needed something -” he glanced at Jehan and winked, “- sunshiney.” 

Jehan smiled uncertainly, still a bit baffled by Feuilly’s quick exit from the dancefloor earlier, but they hummed appreciatively as he slid a glass towards them.

“Heck yes,” Courfeyrac yelped, snatching up a glass each for he and Combeferre and taking a long sip. “Oh, fuck, yum.”

Enjolras’s eyes lit up and he grinned when he took his first sip. “That’s really, really nice. Thankyou, Feuilly.”

“Anytime, my friend.”

Marius and Cosette drifted over, arm-in-arm, looking worried. 

“Is everything alright?” Marius asked Courfeyrac, who stood on tiptoe to throw an arm around his gangly friend’s neck. 

“Everything is fine, dear, just fine - we’re alive, we’re in good company, we have an excellent bartender and you have a beautiful lady on your arm. What could be better?” If anyone noticed that his smile looked just a little hollow, they didn’t comment on it. 

“Have you darlings seen Eponine?” Jehan asked. 

“She left, just a couple of minutes ago, with Bahorel,” Cosette replied. “I was going to ask you if she was okay, she looked like she’d been crying, but...” She broke of, looking up at Jehan, worry plain in her eyes. 

“If she’s with Bahorel she’ll be okay, they’re good friends,” Jehan murmured. “I just... damn. I’ll have to go and check on ‘Aire myself.”

“You really don’t. He’s a big boy,” Enjolras’s tone was bitter, and he ignored the frown Combeferre shot him. 

“No, I do.” Jehan tossed back their almost-full glass, an action that would have had Courfeyrac cheering if the air were just a little less sombre, and started towards the door, blowing kisses over their shoulder as they went.

There was silence for a moment, before Combeferre said “Did we just let Jehan go to Grantaire’s part of town by themselves in the middle of the night?”

Enjolras gulped down his drink almost as fast as Jehan had and ran out the door after the poet without a word of goodbye. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to get this one done a bit early!! which is cool and exciting. But this chapter has made me really sad and upset (and also life is making me sad and upset rn) so I feel like the next one might actually be a bit late. But feedback inspired the heck outta me (it really really does) so if you NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER IMMEDIATELY YOU SHOULD TELL ME. BE DEMANDING. DO IT. <3


	7. you've got a pocketful of reasons why you're here tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan is kind of scary, Grantaire is a train wreck and Enjolras gets a little insight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOOOOOO BOY. THIS WAS REALLY EMOTIONAL TO WRITE GUYS AND WE'VE GOT SOME BIG OLD WARNINGS TO TAKE NOTE OF FIRST OF ALL. There is weapons in this chapter, there is some crappy language, small shitty transphobia/misgendering moment, there is drunkenness and puke, hints at past child abuse and very vague hints at past homophobia and transphobia. If you've been worried that trans!jolras is too real for you, this chapter deals with it a little more explicitly than previous chapters, so like, gird your loins. 
> 
> Okay now that that's done: YOU GUYS, YOU PRECIOUS DARLING BABES LEAVING ME WONDERFUL COMMENTS AND TALKING TO ME ON TUMBLR AND STUFF, YOU ARE AMAZING. I did have a really tough week, I had originally planned this chapter to be longer, but I didn't have enough time and emotional energy to put into it and I thought in the end it worked okay ending here, and it might be better this way than insisting on a longer chapter and updating late. You've all been so wonderful and supportive, I really didn't want to keep you waiting. 
> 
> Title is from 'Collar Full' by Panic! at the Disco. 
> 
> OKAY HERE IT IS PLS ENJOY <3

“Jehan! Jehan, damnit,” Enjolras shouts after the thin figure stumbling slightly on their heels, two blocks ahead of him. They’d have a hard time hearing him over the noise of the city at midnight, music pumping from every other doorway and cars still speeding up and down. He takes a deep breath and wrenches his voice from deep in his chest, the way he does at rallies. “ _Jehan!!”_

Finally, the figure pauses, turning and allowing Enjolras to catch up. 

“Everything alright, love?” they ask him, looking baffled when he reaches them, slightly out of breath.

“No,” he huffs, tucking Jehan’s arm through his almost aggressively. “I’m coming with you.”

Jehan smiles affectionately. “If you insist. Here’s our tram now, perfect timing.”

They choose a seat towards the back of the tram, a good distance between them and other passengers. Enjolras sits quietly for a moment, rubbing his temples with his fingertips and trying to stop his stomach lurching at the thought that they were _two trans people heading to a rough neighborhood in the middle of the night god help them,_ before he looked up, ready to ask Jehan what on earth they thought they were doing. The words stuck in his throat, though, when he saw what Jehan was preoccupied with. They had pulled one of those fold-out cosmetic travel cases out of their bag, one with a holographic vinyl outside and a pale pink lining, and in the clear plastic pockets, amongst the odd tubes of lipstick and mascara and glitter, was what looked like two switchblade knifes - one larger, with a pink handle, and one thinner, in black. There was also a small aerosol can covered in rhinestones, and Jehan was humming to themself as they slipped a heavy gold knuckle-duster onto their fingers, it’s pair sitting in their lap. 

“Jesus fuck, Jehan,” Enjolras choked, careful to keep his voice low. “What the fuck is all that?!”

Jehan looked up at him, smiling serenely. “Hm? Better than keys sticking out of your fist, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but a lot more illegal,” Enjolras spluttered.

“So is queer-bashing. Doesn’t stop some.” 

“Where did you _get_ them??”

“Do you want a pair?” Jehan grinned, and Enjolras noticed for the first time how sharp their eye teeth were. “Talk to Eponine. She has her ways.”

“You know, I followed you to make sure you’d be safe,” Enjolras murmured, shaking his head. “You’ve obviously got that covered.”

“Awwh,” Jehan cooed, as they slipped a switchblade into each pocket and tucked the suspicious little can in their sleeve. “How very chivalrous of you.”

Enjolras huffed a laugh, looking at his friend with a new respect. “Have you ever had to... you know... use any of that?”

Jehan shrugged. “Just the mace, usually. And I don’t need to all that often.”

“So that _is_ mace,” Enjolras hummed. “I’m honestly horrified that Grantaire lets you go out to his end of town alone.”

“Grantaire knows I can look after myself.” There was the faintest edge of frost in Jehan’s tone, and Enjolras took it for the warning that it was.

“Of course.” 

They were silent for a while, Jehan staring absently out the window while they ran their thumb over the metal on their fingers, Enjolras watching their surroundings carefully. 

“Has Grantaire ever said anything like that to you before?” he asked Jehan suddenly. “You know, what he said earlier. About the bathrooms.”

Jehan looked down at their lap, their lips twisting unhappily. “Never.”

“Does he believe it?”

“Of course not,” Jehan sighed.

“Then why would he say it?!”

Jehan met his eyes. “There’s an awful lot more to that boy than you see, you know,” they told him seriously.

“Like what?”

“What do you see, when you look at Grantaire?”

Enjolras shrugged. “I know he’s a drunk, because I’ve seen you drained from taking care of him often enough, and he drinks a fair amount at the Musain but his tolerance is obviously pretty high because it never seems to affect him that much. Um. He’s a cynic, and it seems really weird to me that _you_ would be so close with someone like that. He’s antagonistic, and I don’t understand _why_ because when he’s _not_ he’s actually half decent conversation. I can’t comment on his artistic career because all I’ve seen of it is the paint splatters he’s always covered in. Oh, and he’s messy. Doesn’t put a lot of effort into his appearance. Which is fine, the scruffy look kind of suits him, I guess. Uhm. His eye contact isn’t great, he looks away a lot, and yet I know he looks at me when I’m not looking at him. It’s a bit creepy, or, I don’t know, I feel like it should be. He’s very affectionate to you, sometimes I suspect he has a crush.”

Jehan laughed out loud at that. “Oh, honey, no.”

“No?”

“Absolutely no. Maybe once, when was it, five or six years ago?”

“He had a crush on you?”

“Yes. A bit. And I had a crush on him. I mean, we were such good friends, for so long - I think it’s impossible to be so close over all those years, and go through so much together, and not fall just a little bit in love.”

“But not any more?”

“It ran its course.” Jehan smiled and stood up as the tram shuddered to a stop. “He was my first, you know.”

“Your first what?”

“My first fuck, of course,” Jehan giggled, leading the way out onto the badly lit street. “And for the record, it was lovely.”

Enjolras eyed them sceptically. “‘Lovely’? Grantaire doesn’t seem the romantic type.”

“Ah, you see,” Jehan shook their finger at him. “That’s what I mean. You have a lot to learn about R.”

“So he _is_ romantic?”

They hummed, smiling in amusement. “Perhaps that’s something you might like to find out for yourself, one day.”

“Oh, please,” Enjolras protested, spluttering slightly. “I hardly think I’m his type.”

“Enjolras, angelface, you’re everyone’s type.”

“Stop.”

Jehan giggled, and they both fell silent as they entered the dated apartment block and started to climb the stairs.

“I never know why Grantaire picks fights like he does, either,” Jehan murmured, after a pause. “I think... I think a sad, unhealthy little part of his heart feels more comfortable when anger is directed at him. He had a very difficult family life, you know.”

Enjolras looked at them in surprise. “Really? I was thinking maybe he’d had a spoilt childhood.”

“Oh, trust me.” Jehan shook their head. “That is very, very much not the case.”

“That’s... that’s good to know.”

“I think that’s why he drinks, and he seems cynical. Too many ugly memories in his head, not enough beautiful ones to balance them out. But... he’s not truly as cynical as he likes to think he is, you know. I can tell.”

“How?”

“His paintings.” Jehan smiled dreamily. 

_He makes the most painful things so beautiful._ Enjolras remembered Jehan saying that, when he’d first met Grantaire, and he remembered how Grantaire had frowned and looked at the floor, embarrassed, and then he’d quickly left the conversation because he’d had the most insane urge to put his hand under the dark-haired man’s chin and gently lift his face until he stood straight and proud. He felt himself flush slightly at the thought.“I guess I’ll have to see them sometime.”

Jehan hummed in agreement, leading the way through the landing to the hallway and a door marked ’14’. Enjolras leaned on the wall while they fitted the key in the door, feeling suddenly very nervous. 

“Should I, er... I can wait outside,” he suggested lamely.

“No, no, don’t be weird -” Jehan started to say, opening the door and taking a few steps inside - but then they froze. “Uhm. Enj, just... just don’t move for a second, okay?” 

“Oh-kayyy...” Enjolras stood awkwardly in the doorway, more than a little freaked out by Jehan’s panicked tone. They turned to look at him, their face desperate and apologetic at the same time.

“I’m so sorry. Just... stay there. Trust me. Okay?”

“Is he alright?”

“I’m going to find out. Right now.” Throwing one last pleading glance at Enjolras, Jehan scuttled through the next doorway and out of sight. Enjolras waited patiently, not moving from the doorway, until -

“Enjolraaaaaaaaas!”

“I’m here,” he called back, barely catching himself from running towards the sound of Jehan’s voice. “Are you okay?”

“I... I need you to come in, but just... just don’t freak out, alright?”

Enjolras closed the door behind him, moving quickly from the hall to the living room - where he stumbled back and nearly fell over in shock. There, tacked to the wall, was a huge painting of - _himself?!_

“Jeha-an,” he called suspiciously, unable to take his eyes off the face. It _was_ him, but he looked... he looked so _bright,_ almost _divine. Why was there a painting of himself on Grantaire’s wall?!_

“Enjolras, _please,”_ Jehan cried, their voice desperate. “I _really_ need you in here right now.”

Enjolras jerked his eyes away and hastened towards the room Jehan was calling from, a small bathroom just through the hall on the other side of the living room. Jehan was kneeling on the floor, next to the bathtub, and lying in the bathtub, fully clothed, was Grantaire. He was curled on his side in a fetal position, his face in a pool of sick. His jeans were soaked through, and Enjolras was struck with the realization that he’d wet himself. There was a bottle of Jack tipped over on the floor by Jehan’s feet, empty but for barely a mouthful pooled at the side and dripping down the neck onto the tiles.

“Jesus - is he breathing?!”

“Yes, he’s breathing. I just can’t wake him up, and we need to get him out of there.” Jehan’s eyes were filling with tears for the second time that night, and Enjolras knelt next to them and gave their hand a squeeze. 

“Jehan?”

“This is my fault,” they whispered, and a single tear spilled over and rolled down their cheek. “I should have come round earlier. I shouldn’t have let him leave alone.”

“It’s absolutely not your fault,” Enjolras told them fiercely. “Come on. We’re going to wake him up so we can get this sick out of his hair, alright?” He leaned over the side of the tub, grabbing Grantaire’s shoulders and hauling him into a sitting position. “Grantaire! Wake the fuck up!” he barked, not bothering to keep his voice gentle. It worked; Grantaire opened bleary eyes and struggled to focus on Enjolras.

“Wha-- ‘sat you, Apollo?”

“Yes, hello, glad to see you’re with us. Can you sit up?”

“Yuh,” Grantaire affirmed, then promptly fell back into the vomit puddle when Enjolras let go of his shoulders. The blond caught him a split second before he smacked his head on the side of the tub. 

“Fuck’s sake,” Enjolras muttered, and hauled him back up again. Grantaire pouted, looking baffled by his own lack of co ordination. 

“‘M drunk,” he mumbled.

“You think?!”

Jehan put a thin arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, holding him upright. “Hello, darling, I’m here too.”

“Jehan,” he slurred, leaning into them. Jehan assumed an air of long-suffering patience at having Grantaire’s vomit-matted curls so close to their nose. “Jehan, you’re my very, very bes’ friend.”

“I know.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said loudly, drawing his attention. “Did you know that you’ve been sick?”

Grantaire hesitated for a moment, a look of intense concentration on his face, then said “So that’s what that taste is.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “We need to get your clothes off and give you a shower, you’re covered in it. Is that okay with you?”

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras again, realization dawning on his face. “You’re in my house.”

“Yes. Sorry for not waiting for an invitation, but, well, you were in danger of choking on your puke,” he replied sarcastically. 

Grantaire turned horrified eyes to Jehan. “Please tell me... Jehan, tell me it’s not-”

“Shh, shhh, darling, it’s fine,” Jehan soothed. “He didn’t see it. It’s fine.”

Enjolras frowned at Jehan, who pressed a finger to their lips and jerked their head towards the living room when Grantaire buried his face in his hands and let out a moan that could have been relief or despair. _Oh. The painting._

“Come on, sweetheart,” Jehan murmured, prising Grantaire’s hands away from his face and tugging his t-shirt over his head. “Can you get your jeans off for us?”

Enjolras turned away, grabbing Grantaire’s toothbrush and an empty glass by the sink and filling it with water while Grantaire wrestled his jeans off. “Here,” he held them out in their direction, still averting his eyes. “Brush your teeth, R. To get rid of the taste.”

“For chrissakes, Apollo, you can turn ‘round,” Grantaire mumbled as he took them. And then, as Enjolras did, he looked him in the eyes and added nastily “We’re all men here, right?”

Enjolras’s stomach plummeted.

“Excuse _me,”_ Jehan said, their tone icy, and Grantaire blanched. 

“Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, Jehan, I’m so sorry, I’ve been such a cunt tonight -” 

“I do wish you’d stop using that word as a negative, darling, Eponine will skin you alive if she hears it again,” Jehan hummed, leaning across him to turn on the shower. He gasped and drew his knees up to his chest when the cold spray hit his feet. “But apology accepted. You owe Enjolras one, too.”

“No, no, please,” Enjolras said sarcastically, holding up a hand when Grantaire looked up at him. “Don’t bother.”

“Apollo, I-”

“I said _don’t,_ Grantaire,” the blond snapped. “Drunken apologies don’t mean _shit._ You say you’re sorry now, you won’t remember tomorrow, and you’ll do it over and over again. I don’t want to hear a single word that you don’t mean, do you understand? Not a word.”

Grantaire stared at him blankly for a moment, and then shut his mouth with a snap. Jehan sighed and played with the taps until steam started to fill the room and Grantaire tipped his head forward, allowing the spray to rinse the sick out of his curls. 

“I’m going to find you some clean clothes, R,” they said gently. “Enjolras is staying with you. Okay?” Grantaire didn’t reply. Jehan put a hand on Enjolras’s arm as they made to leave, murmuring, “Please, Enj, try to be kind? For my sake?” 

Enjolras huffed a breath, nodding reluctantly, and knelt down next to the tub. After a moments hesitation, he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. “R, I’m going to wash your hair.” Grantaire pulled his head out of the spray, blinking water out of his eyes as he stared first at Enjolras’s face, and then unashamedly at his binder. “What?” Enjolras snapped, and Grantaire’s eyes flicked back up to his face. 

“Okay,” he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.

Enjolras snatched a bottle of shampoo off the side of the tub and poured a liberal amount into his palm. “Head back.”

He had meant to be all business, just a quick latherto get Grantaire’s hair properly clean so they could put him to bed and _leave,_ but Enjolras found himself oddly fascinated with the feeling of thick locks weighed down with water between his fingers. He realized he was being oddly gentle at about the same moment that Grantaire let out a pleased hum at his fingers scratching lightly over his scalp. It occured to him that he should stop, that this was far too intimate and he didn’t even _like_ Grantaire, _the stupid rude slob,_ and he was just about to pull away when the tattoo on Grantaire’s shoulder caught his eye. It was a ship, a 19th-century style frigate in perfect detail, carried on rolling waves with sails billowing. Enjolras doesn’t quite know what it is about those delicate black lines that seem to create movement and life where there is none but he could swear he can almost hear the cry of the seabirds circling the rigging above the rhythmic crash of the sea. Written on the ship’s bow in tiny but clear letters is a name, “Anne-Marie”. Enjolras’s eyes wander further across Grantaire’s tanned skin to a block of text on his back, that looked for all the world written by hand in black ball-point, albeit very neatly. He reads as he absently circles his fingers over Grantaire’s scalp.

_We, children of the two-bit faded flakey fences_

_Climb with claws of broken biro from the wreck_

_We build bodies of chords and pins and sharpie ink_

_To replace the weakened skin and bones._

_We dress our wounds with post-it notes and patches_

_Set the shattered edges jarring, jagged_

_We fit like lethal puzzle pieces scattered_

_Pieces of the picture they would rather leave blank._

_We have the pain and emptiness to thank_

_For the canvas of rejection_

_We are our own masterpiece, our lives greatest work_

_Handsome imperfection and our lovely, ugly smiles_

_We are here and we are queer and we are taller than our fear._

  * ****_J. Prouvaire._



Enjolras drew a shaky breath, blinking the prickle of tears out of his eyes as he re-reads the last few lines. He thought he’d heard just about all of Jehan’s completed poems, but he’d never heard that one - in fact, if it weren’t for the familiar signature needled into Grantaire’s tanned skin, he might not have guessed it was theirs. It carried their trademark disjointed ethereality, but it seemed somehow far darker, far more raw than what he was used to hearing from them. 

“Apollo?” Grantaire’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Enjolras cleared his throat. “You can rinse now.”

Jehan returned a few moments later, holding a tray bearing three steaming mugs and a glass of water, a bundle of clothes tucked under their arm. 

“Rooibos,” they murmured, half to themself, as they put the tray down on top of the toilet lid. “Feeling better, ‘Aire?”

“Mm.” Grantaire reached up to twist the shower taps off. He does look more sober now, and more awake, Enjolras realized before he turned away to give Grantaire some privacy while he toweled himself off and put on the clothes Jehan handed him. The blond watched Jehan as they pulled a necklace out of their sweater and over their head, a simple leather cord with a tumbled stone dangling from it, and handed that to Grantaire as well, who slipped it around his neck with a grateful smile. 

“Amethyst,” Jehan clarified, in answer to Enjolras’s questioning look. “It helps to sober you up.”

“Does it?”

“The ancient greeks thought so,” Grantaire said, joining Jehan and Enjolras on the tiled floor and taking the glass of water. “And Jehan thinks so. That’s good enough for me.”

“Perhaps you should wear it all the time,” Enjolras replied, and he didn’t mean it to sound so spiteful, he really didn’t, but Grantaire just smiled wryly.

“Perhaps I should.”

 

Enjolras couldn’t help but notice that the painting had been taken off the wall as they left Grantaire’s apartment, the sheet folded neatly and placed on the coffee table. He said nothing until he and Jehan were back out on the pavement, waiting for a tram to take them home. Jehan was exhausted, they had an arm slung around Enjolras’s waist and their head on his shoulder, trying and failing to keep their eyes open, but Enjolras _had_ to ask.

“Jehan?”

“Hmm??

“That... that was a picture of me, on Grantaire’s wall, wasn’t it?”

Jehan sighed, but didn’t lift their head from Enjolras’s shoulder. “Yes, darling, it was.”

“Is there something I’m missing here?”

“Only that you’re stunningly beautiful and Grantaire likes to paint beautiful things.”

“I thought you said he painted painful things.”

This time they did lift their head, and smiled slowly at the blond, eyes half-lidded. “Whoever said the two were mutually exclusive?”

Enjolras didn’t reply for a moment, and Jehan lowered their head again, and then -

“Jehan,”

“Mm?”

“It was _huge.”_ They huffed a little laugh, and Enjolras continued, sounding mildly horrified. “It was on a _bedsheet.”_

“What stiff and sterile canvas could possibly be worthy of your portrait, fearless leader? Far better a bedsheet, primed with years of countless dreams, midnight hopes and fears threaded through the weave - there is magic in the very _foundation_ of the painting, then. Your image has a soul.”

“Prouvaire, you are a very odd creature,” Enjolras said sternly, but smiled when they chuckled again. “This is why your poetry is so much better than mine. You can’t turn it off, can you?”

“I’d have to want to,” they murmured. “And I don’t.”

“Grantaire has a poem of yours tattooed on his back.”

Jehan paused. “Yes. Yes, he does.”

“It’s a beautiful peice,” he said sincerely. “When did you write it?”

“Years ago. Before I met you, actually.” Jehan tightened their arm around his waist. “When I wrote it, it was about myself and ‘Aire. I’d just finished high school, and I hadn’t written a thing for a year, I’d had a really horrible time. I wasn’t popular, you know. And then after graduation, I went to Grantaire’s instead of going to the party with the rest of them, and he gave me the _nicest_ time, made dinner and bought nice wine and he’d made me a terrarium out of an odd jar he’d found at a thrift shop. And afterwards it occurred to me that while my classmates were created by each other, to a degree, with all the peer pressure to dress like this and talk like that, and by the media too, with all these images of who you ought to be pushed in your face every day, and then I realized that me and ‘Aire, we had never been accepted into that, for want of a better word, _institution._ We created _ourselves._ And that was a wonderful moment, when I realized I was proud of being a freak, and that Grantaire ought to be too. So I wrote a poem for him.” Jehan sighed and their breath tickled the skin on Enjolras’s neck. “And it was rather prophetic, really, because in the coming years I started meeting so many more self-made masterpieces, who’d either been rejected by mainstream society or had rejected it themselves, and the ‘we’ in the poem came to mean all of them, all of us, but... originally it was just me and Grantaire. It always seemed to intimate to read in public.”

“He was a good friend, then? In high school?” Enjolras asked quietly.

“The best. He was a year above me, we didn’t have any classes together, so I would write him letters and poems and little stories, and give them to him during breaks so he could look at them and not feel so alone. He would draw me pictures in return.”

“What did he draw?”

Jehan stood upright and tugged the neckline of their sweater down to reveal the colorful bouquet of sunflowers on their shoulder. “He drew this when I was having a bad day once, in black biro, and colored it in felt tip pens. I had it tacked to my wall for two years and then got it tattooed for my eighteenth birthday.” They smiled, tracing a leaf idly with their fingertip. “He drew flowers and birds for me a lot, but he drew funny things too. Insulting caricatures of rude teachers and students, little comic strips depicting the mischief we’d get up to after school, cute monsters, that sort of thing.” They looked up and met Enjolras’s eyes. “You’re very curious, all of a sudden.”

“The guy had a painting of me on his wall,” Enjolras pointed out again. “And we just had to clean him up and put him to bed after he inhaled a bottle of whiskey by himself. I’m trying to get an idea of whether I should be worried or not.”

“I know you don’t mean that,” Jehan chided. “He’s awfully embarrassed about that painting, you know. You mustn’t let him know you saw it, he’d never forgive me.”

Enjolras smiled. “I won’t. But that’s for your sake, not his. I still don’t like him.”

“Don’t you?” Jehan looked at him critically. “You just left your friends at your favorite bar to come all the way to a strange suburb and spend an hour playing nurse to a man you don’t like. How strange.”

“For _you,_ Prouvaire!” he protested indignantly.

“Alright, alright. Listen, I know he was unbearable tonight, but... just don’t write him off, okay?”

At that moment, the tram rattled down the street towards them, loud enough to wake the dead and spare Enjolras from a definite answer.

 

The pair travelled home in silence, Jehan dozing, and Enjolras lost in thought.  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mace is illegal in Australia (boo), though I know it is legal in the US. I don't know about anywhere else though. Since our little crew here appear to be living in a totally fictional city on an unknown continent, I didn't know whether to explicitly state whether or not mace is illegal in their world. I decided to leave it ambiguous.  
> \- I once dated an alcoholic for two years. Not a party. I can vouch for yelling sometimes being the only thing to wake a drunk up, but it's pretty unkind. Only do it in emergencies.  
> \- GUYS I WROTE A POEM! I NEVER WRITE POEMS!!! Please please omg please tell me what you think of the poem i wrote for Jehan because if it's okay enough I might read it at an open mic ^-^
> 
> I know I've been really melancholy lately, and I'm very sorry about that. But - exciting news!! my legal name change went through!! And a very good friend of mine has just moved back here from interstate, so things are really looking up! I can't express enough how much I've appreciated all the love and support you guys have been sending me, it gives me life, it really really does <3


	8. I like the sunrise, and I hope it likes poor me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel really is an excellent friend, and maybe one day soon Grantaire is going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY EVERYONE LOOK BIG WARNINGS SERIOUSLY  
> WE HAVE SMUT IN THIS CHAPTER SO IF YOU'RE UNDER 18 OR YOU DON'T LIKE THAT SORT OF THING TURN YOUR LIL BUTT RIGHT AROUND OKAY  
> WE ALSO HAVE TALK ABOUT CHILD ABUSE AND VIOLENCE AND INJURIES, I REALLY DON'T WANT TO TRIGGER ANYONE  
> AND ALSO SOME DEPRESSING SELF-HATEY SHIT  
> PROCEED WITH CAUTION.
> 
> Chapter title is from 'I Like the Sunrise' by Nina Simone. If you don't listen to Nina Simone on occasion I feel very sorry for your poor deprived ears.  
> GUYS I AM STILL JUST LOSING IT COMPLETELY OVER ALL THE BEAUTIFUL COMMENTS I'VE HAD. YOU ARE ALL SO WONDERFUL. I really, really hope you like this cuz it's the first smut i've ever been game enough to publish ever ever and i really struggle writing smut??? SO PLS LET ME KNOW HOW I CAN IMPROVE PLS
> 
> anyway this chapter's going out to Luke who is just the cutest and sent me a bunch of les mis pun pick-up lines for which i will be forever grateful HI FRIEND I LOVE YOU

“Remind me why the fuck we’re watching this shit?” Eponine howled from her position upside-down on Bahorel’s couch, legs slung over the back and head dangling from the seat. 

“Excuse you, Micheal Bay is a genius,” Bahorel replied, mock offended, and then leaned over her. “I could totally drop popcorn up your nose right now.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“I’m gonna do it!!”

“I will fucking _end you-”_ Eponine’s phone rang loudly, cutting her off. “Shit. Who the fuck?? Oh, crap, it’s Marius.” She sat up and shot Bahorel a slightly panicked look before answering. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to wish my best friend in the world a good night,” he said, and Eponine could hear the huge goofy smile in his voice. “You seemed upset when you left. You okay?”

“I’m fine, I just felt sick,” Eponine lied. “Did you guys have fun?”

“ _So_ much fun, it was such a great night. I’ve never danced that much in my _life._ I just walked Cosette home, I’m heading to mine now.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ep, guess what?”

“What?”

“She kissed me.”

Eponine’s stomach turned to lead. “Oh. Wow.”

“Just a small kiss, but... oh my God. She _kissed_ me.” He laughed breathlessly. “Her lips are soft as clouds, she’s amazing - Eponine, I feel so _alive.”_

It’s a horribly strange and uncomfortable feeling to be happy for someone you love and at the same time be sure that your soul is being slowly eviscerated, Eponine thought. “You are a sap,” she murmured.

“One day, ‘Ponine, you’re going to fall in love too, and you’ll know what it’s like to be this happy,” he assured her brightly.

“Will I really,” she deadpanned.

“I promise.”

“You’re a fool, Pontmercy,” she told him, without a hint of venom.

“Perhaps,” he laughed. “Are you at home?”

“I’m at Bahorel’s. We’re watching some kind of giant robot, objectified Megan Fox bullshit.”

“Sounds... fun? I should let you get back.”

“Don’t you get beat up on your way home,” she warned him.

“I’m nearly there, Cosette lives pretty close to me. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Goodnight, dork.”

“Goodnight, ‘Ponine.”

She hung up and dropped her phone on the floor, sighing heavily. Bahorel reached over to take her hand and give it a comforting squeeze.

“You okay, Toughnut?”

She didn’t reply for a moment, then sat up straighter and looked hard at him. “Would you fuck me?”

Bahorel started to laugh, but it died in his throat when she narrowed her eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Answer the goddamn question.”

“Okay, geez, girl. Yes, yes I would fuck you. In a heartbeat. But -”

“But what?”

Bahorel sighed, turning on the couch to face her and taking both her hands. “You’re being very intense right now, kiddo. What’s going on?”

She looked down at her hands in his, and when she next spoke, it was quiter, less sure. “Sorry. I just... You’re a really good friend, Bahorel. I trust you a lot. Like, a fucking _lot._ And I’m really, stupidly hung up on Marius - and not just fucking Marius, Cosette too, and it’s fucking ridiculous, do you know I haven’t gotten laid in over a year?! Fuck, I just...” She looked up at him, biting her lip. “I feel so gross, and ugly, and disconnected, and I _really_ want sex.”

He cupped her face in his hands, staring at her intently. “But with me? I’m not Marius and I’m not Cosette. I can’t stand the thought of you regretting it.”

“I won’t. I’m seriously asking you, dude.” She leaned closer, hesitantly. “Sleep with me?”

Bahorel closed the distance between their lips by way of an answer. 

 

The first time Bahorel saw Eponine she was seventeen years old, a skinny, scruffy thing with steel in her eyes and a mouth dirty enough to make a sailor blush, being taught to box by Grantaire in the very same gym she now worked at. That was three years ago, and she’s still young, so young, but she’s pinning Bahorel to the couch with her hands on his shoulders and her knees against his sides and there’s nothing childlike about the way her teeth tug at his lip. She had tugged his clothes off like they offended her but was only half undressed herself; her short denim skirt was bunched around her waist beneath the swell of her breasts, and she hummed appreciatively as he ran his hands up her stockinged thighs to grip her arse, marvelling at how small and yet how powerful she felt under his hands.

“Rip them.”

“What?”

“ _Do it.”_

They tore easily, thin flimsy nylon, and Eponine let out a throaty laugh at the sound. Bahorel’s fingers found the curls and folds of skin that hid her sex, hesitating only for a moment in surprise at not finding a thin cotton barrier, and her chuckles gave way to a breathy sigh as he teased them apart.

“Condom,” he muttered when she reached down to grip his cock.

“Where?”

“There’s one in my wallet. Uhm, jeans pocket-”

She climbed off him to retrieve it, her fingers hasty but not fumbling, and then grinned triumphantly. “Got it!”

He smiled back. “Want me to put it on?”

“Let me.”

“Okay, but-” he reached out to tug at her waist. “Come here.” He guided her until she stood beside the couch, level with his head, and then coaxed her leg over to brace her knee on his other side before he gripped her hips and licked a broad stripe from her clit, over her entrance and up to the cleft of her arse.  
“ _Oh,”_ she murmured, and Bahorel buried his face between her thighs and lost himself in the taste of her.

He’s not sure how long he was there, it didn’t seem nearly long enough, though his jaw had been starting to ache when Eponine pulled away and shifted until she was facing him, kissed him urgently and groaned when she tasted herself on his lips. She’d slipped the condom on him at some point, and now she held him straight as she lowered herself onto him, her lower lip caught between her teeth and her cheeks flushed under her tan. 

“Oh, God,” Bahorel groaned, desperately fighting the urge to grip her hips and fuck into that tight, wet heat. “Oh God oh God oh God-”

Eponine was breathing in short, shallow gasps. “Fuck, oh fuck, d-don’t move, give me a minute - fuck, you’re really _big-”_

He shushed her gently, reaching up to brush her hair off her face, smoothing it where it fell in inky waves over her shoulders and down her back. “If it hurts, we can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop.” She caught his hands, intertwining their fingers and bracing herself against them as she rolled her hips experimentally. “Fuck, that’s _good_.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. _Move.”_

Bahorel rocked up to meet her, setting a slow, steady rhythm as she tipped her head back and moaned. Her sternum heaved under the intricate tattoo across her chest, the lotus blossom in delicate pinks and purples that spread up to her collarbone and across the swell of her breasts. She was beautiful, so beautiful - Bahorel had always thought so, especially in a fight, with her teeth bared and her knuckles bleeding, and especially when she teased, with that lopsided smirk and glittering eyes, and especially now, as she fucked herself on his cock, taking what she needed, her movements growing wilder as she growled demands for _more, come on._

“Gorgeous,” he panted, trying his best to match the quickening pace. “You’re fucking _gorgeous,_ ‘Ponine.”

She laughed breathlessly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Your body, fuck- _perfect-”_ He drew her hands down to brace against the armrest above his shoulders, surging up to kiss her, swallowing her gasps and breathy moans. His hands found her breasts, and they felt so small under his broad palms. He rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and she cried out, bucking her hips erratically. Her insides twitched and shivered as he repeated the movement, relishing the curses that fell from her lips.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna - _fuck, oh god, Bahorel-”_

His own orgasm took him by surprise, wrenched out of him by the feel of her clenching and pulsing around his cock, the sound of her crying out his name like a plea. He clutched her shaking body to his chest and groaned into her hair as it crashed through him, and they stayed like that as they came down, breathing heavily and clinging to each other like a lifeline.

 

Eventually Eponine raised her head from his shoulder to look at him with half-lidded eyes, a smug little smile playing on her lips. Bahorel grinned at her.

“ _God,_ we’re good,” she said, raising a hand. “High five for a fantastic lay, dude.”

“Amen,” he agreed. The high five made a satisfying _slap_ in the peaceful apartment. “How are you feeling, Toughnut?”

She hummed and snuggled back into his chest. “Good. Very good. Sleepy. Can I stay over?”

“That depends.” He ran his fingers through her hair and pressed a kiss to the the top of her head. “Are you a cuddler? Only cuddlers allowed in my bed.”

She snorted and curled herself tighter around him. “Is it not obvious?”

“It is,” he chuckled. “Who would have guessed, scary little punk ‘Ponine is really just a big softie.” 

She smacked his shoulder half-heartedly. “Shut it, you.”

He sniggered again and then patted her thigh. “Come on then, before we fall asleep. I’ve slept on this couch before, it’s a bad idea.”

 

Eponine fell asleep almost instantly once they were under the covers, the t-shirt she had borrowed reaching her elbows and making her look even smaller that she really was, sleep smoothing her face and leaving her far more peaceful-looking than she ever was awake. Bahorel watched her as he drifted off, stubbornly ignoring the twinge in his chest and the quiet voice in his head telling him _if things were different, she could have been yours._

 

 

Jehan was sitting on top of their refrigerator with their morning tea, every window of their tiny studio apartment open, basking in the sunshine and the smell of fresh bread from the bakery downstairs. Every once in a while they liked to sit up there, to take advantage of the high ceilings and a different perspective. They had bought their apartment with the inheritance their grandmother had left them two years ago, and since then it had become so, so much more than a place to sleep; it was an extension of themself. The walls were adorned at intervals by makeshift glass jar candle-holders, wired and nailed in place, and birds, deer, mandalas and dragons painted on the plaster by Grantaire; the balcony overflowed with potted plants, as did every windowsill; the kitchen was cluttered with mismatched teacups and teapots; one corner was dominated by an antique dressing-table-cum-altar crowded with candles, statues, feathers, seashells and crystal geodes; and from the centre of the living-room-slash-bedroom ceiling hung a light fitting made of a hollowed out gourd and glass beads. Nina Simone crooned from the turntable by the bed, and tiny rainbows chased each other across the walls and ceiling, cast by the glass prism in the windchime dangling from the doorway. Jehan sighed contentedly, sipping their tea and looking down at their toes, silver nail polish sparkling where it caught the light, dangling so far off the floor. 

They were half-expecting the knock at the door when it came - they’d heard the baker call a rambunctious greeting and heard footsteps on the worn-down stairs before those three inoffensive taps, so quiet and hesitant they’d surely have missed them if they were still asleep or if their music was just a smidge louder. Their lips twitched in a smile. _Grantaire._

“Come in!”

Grantaire pushed the door open cautiously, peering through the shelving separating the hall from the kitchen at Jehan. “The fuck are you doing up there again?”

Jehan beamed at him as he shut the door behind him. He was obviously holding something behind his back. “Putting things in perspective.”

Grantaire shuffled into the kitchen. “Come down.”

Jehan put down their mug. “Catch me?”

“I can’t-” Grantaire shifted awkwardly. “I have - ugh, fuck’s sake.” He pulled his hand out from behind his back, and with it, a bouquet of yellow roses and a small white box. He dumped them unceremoniously on the counter and held out his arms. “Fine. Come on then.”

Jehan giggled delightedly and launched themself off the fridge and into Grantaire’s arms, wrapping their arms and legs around him as Grantaire let out an _oof_ of breath and stumbled back into the bench. They stayed like that a moment, clinging tight to each other, Jehan pressing a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek as the voice from the turntable washes over them both. 

“Did you bring me flowers?” they asked eventually, shimmying down to stand on their own feet and look into Grantaire’s face, noting his pallid, unshaved skin and slightly puffy eyes. 

“Yeah. And these.” He grabbed the roses and the box off the counter and pushed them into Jehan’s arms, avoiding their eyes.

Jehan buried their face in the bouquet and sniffed appreciatively. “They’re lovely, darling. And what are these?” they opened the box curiously and let out a squeal. “Macarons! Oh Grantaire!”

Grantaire mumbled something, looking down at his feet.

“What’s that, love?” Jehan asked gently, placing a hand under his chin.

“I’m sorry.” Grantaire met their eyes at last, his expression miserable, like a puppy that knows it’s going to be kicked. “I’ve been a burden on you since the day we met.”

“Darling, no-” 

He held up a hand. “Please, let me say this. You’re too kind to ever say it, but you give, and give, and _give -_ and all I do is take. I’ve never deserved your friendship, Jehan Prouvaire, but I _promise -”_ his voice cracked and he took a shuddering breath before continuing. “I promise I will do better. I should have done this years ago, but -” he broke off when Jehan put the roses and the box down and threw their arms around his neck. 

“You stop that, you stop that this minute, R,” they murmured fiercely. “There is not a moment in your life when you have not deserved my friendship.”

“Goddamn it, Jehan, why do you-” Grantaire down half formed sobs. “That’s not _true-”_

“Shh.” Jehan drew back and pressed one long finger to Grantaire’s lips. “My dearest, when we were young and the world was terrifying, I watched you walk through fire for me more times than I can count. And now I watch you poison and torment yourself and I don’t know what to do, Grantaire. I want to protect you, like you used to protect me-” their hands fluttered around his face, smoothing his hair and brushing tears from his cheeks as their own lip trembled. “-but how can I protect you from yourself? Tell me, gods, please tell me what to do.”

Grantaire smiled a shaky smile. “Put the kettle on?”

Jehan laughed, and three tears spilled over and trickled down their cheeks. “Of course, you infuriating bugger.” 

 

Grantaire needed a coffee, an asprin, and a pair of Jehan’s largest sunglasses before he could stand to sit on the balcony in the sunshine, at the little table and chairs that only barely fit amongst the crowded pot plants, but he had to admit that the sun on the back of his neck felt wonderful. Jehan had made him sit quietly while they made chai, telling him sternly that they needed to concentrate. It was fascinating, watching them sing quietly, almost unintelligibly, over the little copper pot as they stirred cloves and cinnamon sticks through the milk, and if an inexplicable sense of awe filled him when a sudden breeze blew through the kitchen window setting gauzy curtains fluttering and windchimes tinkling, he would never admit it. But Jehan had winked as they put the sweet-smelling mug in front of him and pressed a pale pink pebble into his hand as if they read his mind. 

“Do you remember when we met?” they asked, once they were both settled. 

“How could I forget?”

“You were hiding in a drainpipe.” Jehan hummed.

“ _You_ were looking for a dead body.”

“I didn’t know what I was looking for,” Jehan exclaimed indignantly. “I had a feeling I’d find _something._ I _had_ thought it might be a body, but... it turned out to be you.”

Grantaire snorted. “You literally hung your head over the top, and looked in at me, and said ‘oh, you’re not dead.’ I’d never seen you before, and that was how you said hi.”

“You had seen me before, liar. You said so. You said “don’t you go to my school or something?” Which means you’d seen me.”

“Well, I’d never spoken to you.”

“Maybe you should have.”

“I definitely should have.” Grantaire smiled fondly at them, stroking the stone idly with his thumb. “God, you were so weird. And so sweet.”

“You were crying,” Jehan murmured.

“Was I?”

“Yes. And bleeding.”

Grantaire’s skin prickled with a sudden chill. “Huh. That’s right. I was.”

Jehan sipped their tea and watched Grantaire carefully until he frowned and looked away. “Must we talk about _that?”_

“Well, you literally haven’t talked about it sober for about six years, my love. Perhaps there’s a few things that need saying.”

“There’s nothing that needs saying.”

“Alright.” Jehan smiled gently. “I’m not forcing you.”

They sat in silence for a minute, and then Grantaire burst out, “He was a _fucking_ mongrel.”

“Mmm,” Jehan agreed.

“I mean who the _fuck_ does that? Who spends all goddamn day at the pokies getting plonked only to come home and beat hell out of his kid?” Grantaire’s voice cracked, and Jehan reached over and took his hand, squeezing tight.

“Someone who didn’t deserve a son,” they said simply. “Especially not a son as wonderful as you.”

“Let’s not pretend I was anything but a stupid little shit, here, but-”

“Aa-!” Jehan silenced him sharply. “What did I say? You cut that _out._ You were a beautiful, brave, clever boy and I won’t hear otherwise.” 

Grantaire sniffed, and smiled sadly at Jehan. “You were an angel. You always patched me up, you had that first aid kit that you carried round in a biscuit tin, remember? You used to nick medical supplies from the school nurse, and you made that weird paste out of daisies to put on bruises.”

“Arnica,” Jehan corrected. 

“You and your plants. What was that weird spiky one you put on the burns that time?”

Jehan suppressed a shudder at the memory of teenaged Grantaire standing on their doorstep in the middle of the night, angry red splotches raised on his face and neck from a fresh coffee thrown in a fit of drunken rage. His face had been so closed, almost vacant. It was so odd - he never cried at being hurt after that first time they'd met, ever, until Jehan was treating the injuries. “Aloe vera,” they whispered.

“It was really good.”  
“It’s wonderful. I had you put it on my sunburn last summer, do you remember?”

Grantaire smiled a genuine smile this time, obviously delighted to have something happier to talk about. “Is that what that was? You were such a baby about it.”

“Ex _-cuse you-”_

“You were! You whined because it hurt when you showered, and then you demanded a cuddle, and then threw a tantrum because it hurt when i touched you.” Grantaire sniggered into his tea. “Served you right for spending the whole day shirtless in the park, you little tart.”

Jehan smacked his arm half-heartedly. “Shush, you. I’ll have you know it was worth it, I wrote _three_ poems that day.” 

“Your shoulders were completely white before that day. Now they’re all freckly.”

“Freckles are beautiful.”

Grantaire grinned slyly. “Especially on a certain ginger bartender, right?”

“Don’t you do that, don’t you even _think_ about teasing _me_ when _you_ are so completely _hopeless_ about Enjolras.”

Grantaire’s face dropped. “I don’t want to talk about Enjolras.”

“Too bloody bad.” Jehan pressed another stone into his hand next to the pink one, a deep red one now, like a rich wine solidified. “Do you remember last night?”

Grantaire scrubbed a hand over his face. “A bit.”

“You puked in the bath.”

“I sort of figured that.”

“Enjolras washed your hair.”

Grantaire looked up sharply. “I... I remember that, but... honestly I thought that was a dream.”

Jehan shook their head. “No. He washed your hair and then he helped you to bed, and that was after you had been bloody rude to him.”

Grantaire groaned and thumped his head on the table. “I didn’t ask for that. I don’t owe that jumped-up, self-righteous, perfect blond bastard _anything-”_

“Gods give me _strength._ You owe him an apology for a start, and you owe _yourself_ a reality check.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re in love with him.”

Jehan said it so matter-of-factly, so succinctly, that Grantaire looked up, horrified. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s bloody true and you know it.”

“Jeha-an,” Grantaire whined, tangling his fingers in his hair. 

“Will you just admit it please? You’ll feel better.”

“Fine, okay, maybe I am a bit, but for fuck’s sake, he looks like a god and talks like a martyr. How can anyone _not_ be in love with him?”

Jehan smirked. “I’m not.”

“You’re weird, though.”

“Maybe you’re in love with him because you’re _meant_ to be.”

“There is no such thing as fate, Jehan,” Grantaire said automatically. 

“You don’t know that. Come on, imagine if fate was real. Imagine if you two were meant for each other.” Jehan leaned across the table, their green eyes gleaming. “Humor me, darling. What would you do?”

Grantaire shrugged helplessly. “I guess, I’d try to make up for being a dickhead.”

“How?”

“I’d... well, I’ve already decided I’m going to cut back on drinking.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah. From now on, I’m only drinking once a week, and never alone, and never more than four drinks.” He smiled hopefully at Jehan. 

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so proud.” Jehan pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. 

“And I would do something, I don’t know, something to show him I’m not against trans rights.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, go to one of their stupid rallies or something...”

Jehan grinned. “ _Well,_ there’s been one called for tomorrow.”

Grantaire blanched. “Tomorrow?!”

“Yes. And I’m so happy you’ll be coming with me.” They put their head on one side, still grinning like a cheshire cat, and Grantaire groaned.

“Fuck. I can’t get out of this now, can I?”

“Nope. You’re coming and we’re going to watch the speeches and do all the chanting and hopefully not get arrested, and you’re going to apologize to Enjolras, and then no more stupid arguing.” They clapped their hands delightedly.

“You realize this is pointless, don’t you? He hates me, he’s never going to _not_ hate me, and we’re not meant for each other. He deserves a whole hell of a lot better.”

Jehan’s good mood evaporated abruptly. They stood up and slammed both palms on the table, making the teacups rattle. Grantaire jumped.

“If you put half as much effort into improving your self esteem as you put into dragging yourself down and telling yourself you’re somehow unworthy, Grantaire,” they said, their voice some strange combination of despair and seething frustration, “You and everyone who knows you would be much better off.”

The light, warm breeze changed, blowing back on itself and turning cold and bitter as the sky darkened. Grantaire stared at Jehan, his heart thudding frantically in his throat and every inch of his body tense as he desperately tried to tell his screaming instincts _it’s okay, it’s okay, Jehan wouldn’t hurt him, calm down, calm down -_

Jehan blinked, and then their face fell, looking at Grantaire in horror. “Oh, R, darling, fuck, I’m so sorry.” They picked their way slowly around the table, holding their hands out beseechingly. “Forgive me, love, that was awful of me. I just want you to see -” they bit back a sob when Grantaire took their hands cautiously and then let out a shaky breath. “I want you to see how fucking wonderful you are.”

Grantaire silently tugged Jehan into his lap, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face in their sweater. 

“Please,” Jehan whispered into his hair. “Please be kinder to yourself.”

Grantaire sniffled and mumbled almost unintelligibly into the wool as the first few fat drops of rain started to fall. “I’ll try.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, the pink stone Jehan gave Grantaire was rose quartz, and the red one was garnet. Any witches in the audience?? (I REALLY REALLY LIKE CRYSTALS FOR REAL)
> 
> THANKS FOR READING GUYS I HOPE IT DIDN'T HURT TOO MUCH PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK <3 <3 <3
> 
> So I have a really hectic week coming up my loves and I don't know if I will be able to update next week like usual, it's probably going to be late. I'm really sorry!! I'll make it up to you all!!!


	9. One last push with all the strength of us all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rally goes well, and so does an important conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO FRIENDS
> 
> THIS WAS A LATE THING I AM SORRY
> 
> BUT ON THE PLUS SIDE I THOUGHT IT WOULDN'T BE DONE TILL NEXT WEEK AND IT'S DONE NOW SO YAY?? i rly rly hope it doesn't seem rushed :o
> 
> (ps. kinky Courferre shippers may want to look at the thing i posted last week :3)
> 
> OKAY CHAPTER WARNINGS; mentions of violence, transphobia and panic attacks. A slur or two used in a positive, reclaim-y way. 
> 
> Other notes: there's a few original characters in this one, but i hope you guys like them, they're pretty cute :3  
> Also okay in Australia we call them 'utes', i think in the US you call them 'trucks' and i actually don't know what you call them in the UK but they're basically medium sized cars cut in half with a tray stuck on the back. You know what I mean, tradesmen drive them!! Well I'm calling them 'utes' in this fic - not because my Amis are necessarily Australian but because I am and I don't want to confuse myself O_o I'm sorry if that makes things weird!!   
> The ute is Courfeyrac's. It's his baby.
> 
> Chapter title is from 'Can You Give It?' by the Maccabees.

After a night of pouring rain, the day of the rally dawned clear and bright, and that afternoon Jehan and Grantaire arrived to join the crowd already gathered in the quadrangle at the university. It was larger than Grantaire had expected; at least a few hundred students were crowded around an old red ute, Enjolras standing on the back with a microphone in hand, rousing the crowd with an impassioned speech about institutionalized transphobia. He looked beautiful - his cheeks were flushed red to match his dyed denim vest, his eyes blazed and his hair fanned out behind him in the slight breeze as he raised his pale fist in the air to cheers and mirroring gestures from the crowd. Grantaire could clearly see the tattoo on the inside of his wrist now; a small but vividly colored red rose. 

“Christ,” he muttered, his chest clenching painfully. Jehan caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. 

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac appeared at Jehan’s elbow with his hands full of leaflets, planting a kiss on their cheek before turning to Grantaire and smiling with a sort of cautious welcome. “Hey, R.”

Grantaire nodded at him. “You guys seem to be doing alright here.”

Coufeyrac’s reserve dropped and he beamed all over his face. “Isn’t it great?! The Queer Club joined up with us.”

“You mean you guys _aren’t_ the Queer Club?”

Courfeyrac drew himself up proudly. “No - we’re Les Amis d’ABC. We’re a social justice activism club. The Queer Club don’t _do_ activism, usually - they do houseparties and gay bar crawls. The fact that most of _us_ are queer too is merely incidental.” 

“Hang on - you’re Les _what?”_ Grantaire sputtered. 

“Les Amis d’ABC,” Courfeyrac repeated patiently. “It’s French.”

“‘The Friends of the Abased’,” Jehan murmured. “ABC. _Abaissé._ It’s a pun.”

“Oh my god.” Grantaire hid a broad grin with his hand. “God, that’s amazing. French social justice puns. Fuck me dead.”

“Enjolras thought it up. He’s a genius.” Courf’s smile faded slightly as he looked up at the man on the makeshift stage and then back to Grantaire. “Speaking of which, does he know you’re here?”

“No.” Grantaire’s gut twisted uncomfortably. “Should I not be?”

“Yes, you should,” Jehan interjected firmly, and turned to Courfeyrac. “‘Aire is here to support the cause, just like the rest of us.”

Courfeyrac eyed Grantaire dubiously. “As Enjolras’s best friend, it is my duty to inform you that you fucked up spectacularly the other night.”

“Yeah, thanks, mate, I’m aware,” Grantaire mumbled, flushing. “I’m here to make it right.”

Jehan slipped an arm around his waist and and shot him a small, proud smile as Courfeyrac softened. 

“Well, we’re heading to the Corinth for drinks afterwards, considering it’s all going to plan and it doesn’t look like we’re getting arrested,” he joked, jerking his head towards the small group of rather bored-looking police officers lingering at the edge of the crowd. “You’re more than welcome to join us.”

“We’ll be there,” Jehan promised. “Hey, have you seen Eponine?”

“She’s over there somewhere, with Marius and Cosette.” Courfeyrac waved vaguely to the left, indicating an area closer to the stage. “Feuilly’s here somewhere too, with some kids from the shelter.”

Jehan’s face lit up and they turned to Grantaire. “Want to say hi to Eponine and then find Feuilly?”

“Sure,” Grantaire agreed. “See you after, I guess, Courf?”

Courfeyrac caught his arm as they made to move through the crowd. “Hey, R- thanks for coming. It’s really great to see you here.” He gave Grantaire’s arm a little squeeze and smiled encouragingly before drifting away to hand leaflets to protestors. 

 

Eponine could have laughed out loud for relief when she spotted Jehan and Grantaire picking their way through bodies towards her. She had been out for lunch with Marius and Cosette before they arrived here, and being in their combined presence for this long was starting to drive her a bit mad. Her heart leapt into her throat each time either of them smiled or talked to her, and plummeted down to her shoes when they twined their fingers together on the table, or stole a kiss when they thought she wasn’t looking. She felt dizzy and nauseous and had been contemplating claiming a headache and heading home for the past hour now, but each time she thought she’d made up her mind to leave one of them would smile at her again and her breath would catch and it was worth it, for that fleeting moment of bliss. 

_I really am losing it._

“Look what the cat dragged in,” she yelled over the cheering that signaled Enjolras finishing his speech as Jehan and Grantaire reached her and dragged her into a hug. She wrapped around Grantaire as Jehan moved to hug Cosette, who was gushing over the garish floral knitted sweater they were wearing today. Marius grinned and waved at Grantaire over Eponine’s shoulder. 

“Good to see you,” he shouted. Grantaire grinned back and hugged Eponine tighter. 

The cheering died down when a young dark-skinned woman took the stage, holding the microphone like it might explode in her hand, Enjolras next to her holding her free hand and staring fiercely at the crowd as though daring anyone to show a hint of hostility. 

“H-hello,” she said, jumping when her voice echoed back at her, loud in the now silent quad. “Uhm. My name is Holly.”

“We love you, Holly!” someone shouted, setting off a ripple of encouraging applause and cheers. Holly smiled, relaxing slightly. 

“I love you too,” she threw back, grinning at the laughter she received. “Okay. My name is Holly, and I’m transgender. I’ve been out for six months -” she paused when another round of cheers went up, and then raised her voice, speaking over them. “I wish this was a happy speech, guys, but it isn’t, because three months ago I was hospitalized after being assaulted in the women’s bathroom.” The crowd fell silent. Next to Jehan, Cosette gasped in horror, clapping a hand over her mouth. Jehan winced - a moment ago the mood of the crowd was elated, riding high on the hope and sense of solidarity that comes with being around like-minded folk, united in a common interest. Now their skin prickled with the distress of not only themself, but everyone around them. “I had the everloving hell beat out of me by three women who felt that I didn’t belong there,” Holly told them all. “They cracked three ribs, broke my wrist, and broke my jaw.”

A small, choked-off sob reached Jehan’s ears, coming from maybe a few yards to their right, amongst the crowd. On pure instinct, they slipped away towards the sound, picking their way through the crowd as Holly went on to recount the horror of their trauma recovery knowing that the perpetrators received nothing harsher than a two-week suspension from classes. Stepping around a burly blue-haired woman, they discovered a young girl, no more than fifteen years old, pale and shaking. Feuilly was standing beside her, trying in vain to offer comfort and give her space at the same time.  

“Jehan!” Feuilly gasped when he spotted them, straightening up and beckoning frantically. “I’m so glad to see you - can you help me?”

“What’s wrong?”

“This is Olivia.” He turned back to the girl. “Olivia, sweetheart, this is my friend Jehan. Would you like to talk to them?” He whispered to Jehan as Olivia raised tearful brown eyes. “She’s prone to panic attacks, but she really wanted to come today. She can’t tell me what’s the matter, and I can’t leave the other kids to take her out of here.” He indicated a small crowd of teenagers standing nearby, most of them listening intently to Holly, but a couple of them casting curious glances at Olivia. 

Jehan sat cross-legged on the ground, smiling gently at the girl and patting the grass next to them. “Would you like to sit with me, Olivia? Feuilly will make sure we don’t get stepped on.” She hesitated, and then sat, smiling tentatively even as her lips trembled. Jehan pulled a little pouch off their belt, tipping it out in their palm and picking out a small purple stone. “Do you like crystals, Olivia?”

“I guess,” she replied, picking agitatedly at the grass. Jehan handed her the pebble, smiling when she took it. 

“That one is amethyst. They say it helps you stay calm in stressful situations.”

“How does it do that?” Olivia asked dubiously.

Jehan hummed. “Something about Chakras, probably. It’s complicated. But for it to work, you have to close your eyes, clear your mind, and focus on only the stone for a little bit.” She frowned at the stone critically and they smiled encouragingly. “It’s worth a try, right?”

She paused, then shrugged and closed her eyes. Jehan looked up at Feuilly, standing over them both like a sentinel, and gave him a little wink. Sure enough, after several seconds, Olivia’s breathing began to even out, her hands stopped trembling and some of the tension fell from her shoulders. She opened her eyes and beamed at Jehan.

“I feel better!”

“That’s fantastic, dear. No, you should keep that one,” they said when Olivia tried to hand the stone back. “If that one works for you, you should keep it. I have lots of amethyst pieces. I had a feeling I should bring that one in particular with me today; I think it was meant to go to you.”

Olivia’s smile was a little baffled, but she thanked Jehan profusely as she slipped the stone in her pocket.

Jehan stayed silent, braiding a lock of their long hair while Olivia watched them curiously, giving her the space to speak if she wanted to. Eventually, she asked quietly;

“I’m sorry if this is a rude question, but are you a trans lady too?”

Jehan’s smile was kind and serene when they met her eyes. “No, dear. I’m trans, but I’m not a lady. I’m just Jehan.”

“Oh.” She smiled in understanding. “My friend Marlee is like that, they’re just Marlee. Not a girl or a boy.”

“And what about you? Are you a girl, or a boy, or both, or neither?” Jehan asked.

“I’m a girl.” Olivia ducked her head. “I’m a trans girl.”

Jehan reached to cover her hand with theirs. “Is that why what Holly said frightened you?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “At school, I want to use the girls’ bathrooms, but I’m scared of getting beat up. I have to use the disabled bathrooms and sometimes the teachers tell me off because I’m not disabled.”

“One day we’ll have unisex bathrooms everywhere,” Jehan murmured reassuringly. “And one day people will learn to respect other people’s identities and mind their own damn business.”

“I’ll be so old by then,” Olivia groaned.

Jehan laughed. “You’ll be a veteran! The little children will all sit down by your rocking chair, they’ll say ‘tell us about transphobia, Nanna! Tell us about the patriarchy and capitalism and the cis-centric media!’ and you’ll say ‘no, no, it’s nearly bedtime, you’ll have nightmares!’”

Olivia burst out laughing just as the crowd raised a cheer, and Feuilly knelt down beside them.

“Holly’s finished,” he said, relief evident in his tone. “I think there’s a musician on now.”

“Music!!” Jehan scrambled to their feet, catching Olivia’s hand and pulling her up with them to see a student with an acoustic guitar settle in front of the microphone. They wore a black beanie, black and white tartan shirt, grey jeans and heavy black combat boots. The boots were laced with a shocking pink ribbon that matched both their nail polish and the tuft of hair sticking out from underneath the knitted hat. 

“Hello, you rowdy pack of punk trash,” they greeted the crowd to enthusiastic cheers and applause. “Enjolras made you want to throw a brick, and Holly made you want to cry, but my name’s Nico and I’m here to share some love, you big sappy queers. You made any new friends today?” Shouts of general assent echoed back at them and they grinned. “Good! Friends are important! Hug your new friends, or hug your old friends, whatever, just give someone a hug!”

Jehan turned when Olivia tugged on their sleeve. “Can I hug you?” she asked shyly. “You’re a new friend, so...”

Jehan swept the girl up in a tight hug, lifting her off her feet. Olivia giggled and clung on tightly, squeezing Jehan back. Over her shoulder, they could see Feuilly being aggressively group-hugged by all six of his other teenage charges, laughing and looking rather short of breath. 

“That’s so beautiful,” the musician on the stage, Nico, was saying. “Look how cute you all are. I can’t even deal with it.” They started to strum at their guitar, striking up a jaunty rhythm. “You lot like dancing? I’d love to see some dancing. How about everyone who likes dancing come up the front, near the ute - i mean, the totally professional and entirely safe stage that we weren’t too poor to hire?” They winked at the crowd as they continued to strum.

“You want to dance?” Olivia asked Jehan as the crowd started to rearrange itself.

“Yes. Yes, I do, I absolutely do,” Jehan enthused, and allowed Olivia to grab their hand and tug them towards the front. Enjolras, sitting on the edge of the ute tray, spotted Jehan and grinned delightedly.

“Hey dancers! Enjolras, get off my goddamn stage and go dance. Yeahh, that’s what I thought. You kids ready? Here we go - _This is for the black block, this is for the lockdown, this is for centuries ago and this is for now, and this is for thirty seven years before on the streets of Greenwich Village...”_

 

The wonderful thing about folk music, Feuilly thought as he watched Jehan and Olivia swinging each other round, is that it required no particular grace or coordination to dance to; it was perfectly socially acceptable and expected that everyone looks rather a fool, and, therefore, nobody does. Even Enjolras’s unshakably proud demeanor had been shaken off by Courfeyrac appearing out of nowhere to catch him around the waist and skip him around the circle, and the ever-picturesque Cosette had shed her pale pink pumps and was ruining her stockings stomping with Eponine. Some of his teenagers were drifting in to join the fun; some stayed where they were, bouncing slightly of the balls of their feet, smiling at the infectious sense of well-being that had swept over the crowd. 

Olivia talked about Jehan all the way back to the shelter, the normally quiet girl suddenly bursting with things to tell Feuilly about her new friend. 

“They have a tattoo! It’s sunflowers, on their shoulder.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it. It’s pretty.”

“Did you know they write poetry?”

“Yes, I’ve heard them read it a couple of times.”

“Wow! Can you take me with you next time?”

“Well, no, Liv, because the poetry nights are held at a bar and you’re not old enough yet,” he told her gently. She frowned. “How about I ask them if they ever do all-ages readings, and we can go to that?”

She brightened immediately. “Yes, please!” she was silent for a minute, and then asked, “Feuilly, is Jehan a witch?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“They have crystals, and a little bottle on a necklace that had a leaf in it. And, I don’t know, they look sort of _magic._ ”

Feuilly smiled. “They do look magic, don’t they?”

“Do you think they’re a witch?”

“I really couldn’t say, sweetheart. Maybe you should ask them next time you see them.”

“I can’t just _ask_ them!” Olivia gasped in horror.

“Why not?”

“Because if they _are_ a witch, they would want to keep it secret.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because if people knew they’d probably be horrible to them. People are afraid of what’s different,” she added sagely. 

“Do you know what I think?” Feuilly asked her.

“What?”

“I think that whether Jehan is a witch or not, they decided a long time ago not to let other people stop them from being who they are.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “They’re pretty brave, you know.”

“They are,” she agreed, and then, quieter; “They’re braver than me.”

“Hey, kiddo, being brave takes practice.” He gave her shoulders a little squeeze. “You’re pretty damn brave, and you’re getting braver every day. You went to a rally and talked to a stranger today, even though you were nervous. That’s _really_ brave.” 

She smiled, blushing slightly. “Thanks, Feuilly.”

The others were slightly ahead; Addy, Jake and Cody, the most exuberant of the group, were skipping arm-in-arm at the front, singing show tunes, while Robin, Avery and Sae were deep in conversation about possible future careers. Usually even the younger residents didn’t strictly need an escort for weekend activities, but when several of them had heard about the rally and started to show a fervent interest, LaMarque had strongly suggested that someone go with them and ‘make sure they behave themselves’. By ‘they’, Feuilly was quite sure he meant Cody; the sixteen year old had an antagonistic tongue and no sense of self-preservation. But Feuilly escorting them all meant that Olivia, the youngest resident, felt confident enough to go too. And it meant Feuilly could actually go to the rally without the guilt of taking time away from the shelter. 

“Feuilly?”

“Hm?”

“Jehan is _so_ pretty.”

Feuilly bit down on a smile. “They are, aren’t they?”

“Do they have a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?”

“No - but they are _way_ too old for you, missy.”

“Not _me!”_ Olivia giggled and gave Feuilly a little shove. “But, you know, I _could_ date them, in like three years. Then it would be allowed. But maybe _you_ should date them.”

Feuilly flushed. “I don’t think that would work, sweetheart.”

“Why not?”

“I’m too busy with you terrors, that’s why not.”

Olivia punched his arm half-heartedly. “That’s a terrible excuse.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. You should never be too busy for love.”

Feuilly smiled down at her. “Lucky I’m not in love then, isn’t it?”

She shook her head. “Whatever you say.”

 

The Corinth was old, weather-stained pub, proudly catering to the alcoholic needs of students, teachers and locals alike for over one hundred years. The interior walls were hung with odd vintage photographs, deer antlers, and dusty musical instruments, and a rather dented blunderbuss hung over the mantelpiece of the open fire. Tonight it was alive with elated activists in various stages of intoxication, the indulgent landlord being used enough to their antics to virtually give them the run of the place. Combeferre had taken control of the jukebox and Courfeyrac and Jehan were dancing barefoot on the pool table to what seemed to be David Bowie’s entire back-catalogue, much to the delight of cheering and whistling onlookers. Feuilly, finished at the shelter for the day and having a night off, was sitting at the bar pretending to listen to Joly’s impassioned rant about fluoride in drinking water while watching every swivel of Jehan’s narrow hips over his glass. Cosette had cornered Eponine by the pinball machine that Marius was absorbed in after one too many strawberry daiquiris, and was telling the dark-haired woman quite firmly that she was the most beautiful girl in the world, until Eponine flushed as red as the drink in the blonde’s hand and squeaked that she was busting for a piss before making her escape. Bahorel was just bursting through the door with Bossuet, and upstairs in the rooftop beer garden, Grantaire was sitting alone, sipping a glass of soda water and puffing cigarette smoke at the stars. 

He jumped when the door banged open, eyes snapping towards the sound to see the very man he’d been hiding from, the very man he wanted most in the world to see every waking moment. He had been avoiding Enjolras quite successfully, he’d thought, but the blond had finally cornered him. He swallowed hard and refused to lower his eyes as he stalked towards him, his stare hard and icy as always.

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras asked without preamble.

Grantaire blew out a lungful of smoke with exaggerated nonchalance. “I’m smoking, Apollo,” he deadpanned. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Enjolras ignored his question. “You were at the rally.”

“Correct.”

Enjolras huffed and ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. Grantaire’s own fingers itched to follow them, and he balled his hands into fists under the table. “What were you doing at the rally, you infuriating arse?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Solidarity?”

“ _Solidarity?!_ Grantaire, only two days ago you said-”

“I know what I said.” Grantaire stubbed out his cigarette, finally looking away from Enjolras. “I say a lot of things. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of an arsehole.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “I’ve noticed,” he said warily. When Grantaire remained silent, turning his gaze back to the night sky, he asked “Is this your way of apologizing?”

Grantaire shrugged again. “Depends if you accept it or not.”

“No, no, no - apologies don’t work like that.”

“Fine!” Grantaire snapped, turning to face Enjolras, his eyes slightly wild. “I’m sorry, Enjolras. I came today because I’m sorry. I apologise. Is that enough? Want me to black your boots while I’m at it?”

He’s not sure how it happened, but now he’s standing, almost nose-to-nose with Enjolras. He can smell the hint of vodka-and-cranberry on his breath, can see a tiny scar above his upper lip, and a fiery little thrill runs up Grantaire’s spine before ice settles in his stomach and he takes a hasty step back. “That... might have been the most aggressive apology I’ve ever delivered,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. To his surprise, Enjolras gives a shaky little laugh.

“It’s okay. It was... it was sincere.” When Grantaire looks up, the blond is smiling. It’s distant and rather aloof, but it’s a smile all the same. “Tell you what; roll me a smoke and we’ll call it even.”

Grantaire smiles back, sitting back down and pulling out his tobacco as Enjolras sinks into the seat opposite. Enjolras watches him in silence, smiling again when Grantaire hands him the finished cigarette and leans over the table to light it for him. 

“So,” he says at last, sighing the word with a cloud of smoke from his lips. Grantaire’s skin prickles. “Why the change of heart?”

Grantaire tugs his fingers through his curls, snagging tangles. “Well, look at me. I’m twenty-five years old. I have an alcohol problem, I can count my friends on one hand and I’ve been single for five years because I’m a bitter, anti-social bastard. My life is essentially pointless. And then, look at you.” He gestures towards Enjolras. “You, you give everything to try and make the world a better place. You talk about your ‘cause’ like you’d die for it, like you fully expect to and you embrace that. At first, I thought maybe that made you an idiot, but the more I hear you...” he shook his head. “The more I want to believe in y- in _this._ And so I get to thinking, maybe I’m the idiot. After all, I’m the one who has to be scraped off the floor at two am, over and over and over. So, Apollo, I’m going to go to these rallies. And take an interest in social justice issues. And maybe I can find some way to actually contribute, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get my head around the concept that the world is actually worth saving.” He looked up at the blond, smiling crookedly. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

Enjolras tipped his head on one side, his hair tumbling over his shoulder. “Jehan is a good influence on you.”

Grantaire watched the meagre light play on golden curls, mentally cataloguing exactly what paints to blend on his palette to capture every glint and shine exactly. “Maybe they’re not the only one.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Nico is covering is "I Prefer to Sing" by Adham Rohland. If you can find Adham Rohland somewhere, LISTEN. They're kind of really obscure (or at least they are in Australia) but they're kIND OF REALLY AWESOME. 
> 
> GUYS OH MY LORD THIS CHAPTER WAS TRICKY
> 
> WORKING ORIGINAL CHARACTERS IN WITH MY AMIS IS TRICKY
> 
> DID I DO OKAY PLS TELL ME <3
> 
> Next chapter should hopefully be up late next week :3 xxxx


	10. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly has a no good, very bad day. Grantaire, Jehan and a jug of sangria to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I had a really good time writing this chapter. Hope it raises some smiles ^-^   
> Warning for a bit of smut at the end.
> 
> I wanna express my huge love again for everyone that's sending me beautiful feedback, and I wanna dedicate this chapter to Dean, who is an absolute gem and inspires me so much.

Feuilly’s day had started badly, with the old kettle finally packing it in and refusing to boil for his morning coffee, and was keeping up the momentum of inconveniences and unpleasantness with alarming determination. He arrived at the shelter to find that Cody had just shouted at his roommate for taking too much time in the bathroom, reducing the sensitive young man to tears that refused to let up, even after Feuilly sat with him for an hour rubbing his back and reassuring him over and over that he _was_ welcome here and he certainly _wasn’t_ about to be kicked out. The whole incident set off a ripple of disquiet among the residents, some snapping at each other over breakfast, some morose and silent, and many refusing to go to school and retreating to their bedrooms complaining of stomach ache or migraines. Feuilly let them go - Gods only knew _he’d_ go back to bed if he could - until LaMarque called him into his office for a chewing out.

“You’re here to provide emotional stability for these kids, Feuilly,” he snapped. “They don’t look very emotionally stable to me.”

To his own surprise, Feuilly had snapped back. “I’m only one man, Monsieur LaMarque, and I’m only paid for two days out of the seven that I’m here every week. Most of these kids are traumatized in some way, we need a psychologist on site. We have forty residents, it’s entirely unreasonable to expect me to fulfill a role I’m not qualified for when I already take on at least half of the administration duties as well as peer support. I already work nights so I can afford to live while I give this place my all. I’m doing my best-” his voice cracked, and he screwed his eyes closed against the tears burning behind them, forcing himself to breathe evenly. 

He opened his eyes when he felt a hand on his shoulder. LaMarque was gazing into his face with concern. “So am I, dear boy,” he murmured. “You and I, we do far more than our share. I understand that. But still, we soldier on.” He gave Feuilly’s arm a bracing pat. “When we have-”

“The funding we need, I know,” Feuilly muttered.

LaMarque smiled sadly. “Exactly. No, go and get those rascals out of bed, will you, there’s a good chap.”

Feuilly managed to coax most of them out and down to the common room, to do some homework and make something productive of the day, but not a single one was happy about it. Even Olivia avoided looking at him when he sat down beside her to offer some help.

“Are you okay, Liv?” he asked her gently.

“No,” she sighed. “Can I go back to my room yet?”

“Please stay here, sweetheart.” He tried to sound firm, but a pleading note crept into his voice. “If you can’t do homework right now, maybe you can write how you’re feeling? It might make you feel better.”

This suggestion was met with silence, so he moved away to give Sae a hand with her algebra. After about fifteen minutes, he glanced back and started when he saw tears now rolling down Olivia’s cheeks.

“Liv, Liv, c’mere,” he muttered, sliding into the seat next to her and offering a hug. She slumped against his shoulder, sighing a shaky sort of relief when he wrapped his arms around her. “What’s going on, ladybug?”

“I tried to write my thoughts, like you said, but I can’t find the words.”

She had Jehan’s crystal clutched in her fist. Feuilly scrubbed a hand over his face. 

“Do you really need time to yourself?” Olivia raised her tearful face and nodded. “Okay. Okay. Go, have a nap or something - but I expect you to be down for dinner, alright?”

LaMarque was going to kick his arse, he thought as Olivia gathered her papers and scuttled off upstairs. LaMarque was going to kick his arse and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

He arrived home after three more tearful resident breakdowns, another letter from the local council denying their most recent request for more funding, and an hour-long hold-up on the train, to find a post-it-note from his night-shift working housemate tacked to the fridge. 

_Hey Feuilly, we got a letter today from the landlord - he wants to sell the house. We have to move out in a month. See you tomorrow - Josh._

Feuilly read the note three times before it sunk in. He had to move out. He had to find somewhere else to live. But he’d never find somewhere as cheap and well located as this ramshackle little terrace house was, and he didn’t have the time to go househunting, and shifting even his meagre belongings was sure to cost a fortune in van hire, and only a _month?_

With a weight like lead in his stomach and his chest tightening with every moment, Feuilly paused only long enough to roll a cigarette with shaky fingers before he swept out of the house and strode down the street towards the supermarket, half his mind screaming that now was not the time to waste money on alcohol, the other half screaming that if he didn’t have a drink he’d go stark raving mad. The internal feud continued the entire five-block walk until he was jerked out by someone calling his name as he crossed the car park - he looked up in surprise to see Grantaire waving and beaming all over his swarthy face. 

“Feuilly! What are you doing here?!” The artist jogged over to him, clutching ragged shopping bags, smears of bright colors up his bare arms. 

Feuilly shrugged and forced a smile back. “This is my local. What about you?”

“No way! Mine too!” Grantaire’s exuberance faded slightly as he sensed Feuilly’s mood. “Something wrong, mate?”

Feuilly sighed. “Honestly, every-fucking-thing is wrong. I had a shitty day, the kids were little shits, my boss is a shit, and my shit of a landlord is kicking us out of our shitty house.”

“Fuck.” Grantaire put a consoling hand on his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

Feuilly laughed bitterly. “I’m going to buy a cheap nasty bottle of port and drink myself into oblivion, that’s what. After that, I have no idea.”

Grantaire paled. “Look, I know things are awful,” he said carefully, “But trust me, brother, that’s really not a habit you want to get into.” Feuilly looked away, blowing out an exasperated breath and running a hang through his hair. “Hey,” Grantaire said suddenly.“Do you like paella?”

“I love paella,” Feuilly admitted, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Why?”

Grantaire grinned. “I’m making some. Come round for dinner, we can make some sangria and talk it out, put things in perspective a bit.”

“Awh, shit, I wouldn’t want to intrude-”

“And you wouldn’t be. Paella for one is a bit depressing anyway. Come on.” He raised his eyebrows hopefully. 

“Yeah, alright, you twisted my arm.” Feuilly grinned at the artist gratefully. “Let me carry some of those bags.”

 

Grantaire was an excellent and enthusiastic cook, when he actually set his mind to it. Unlike Feuilly, he’d had a wonderful day; after his quite pleasant conversation with Enjolras the night before, he’d woken up feeling happier than he had in a long time. He’d gone for a walk to his favorite deli and bought no less than six apricot-jam filled croissants for breakfast before sending off a rental application for a studio space he’d had his eye on for a while. The rest of the day he’d spent completing the commissions he’d been working on, all of them finished several days before they were due, before cleaning his whole apartment and suddenly realizing it was evening and he was hungry.Now he chattered away happily as he stirred mussels and shrimp into the rice and the scent of pine and orange filled the kitchen from the incense sticks on the window sill.

“My mum taught me to make it,” he told Feuilly, as he sliced up oranges for the sangria. “She was Spanish. She loved cooking, always dreamed of having her own restaurant.”

“What did she do?”

“She was a waitress.”

“Huh.” Feuilly cracked open the bottle of wine, sniffing it appreciatively. “I never knew my mum. Tell me more about yours.”

Grantaire smiled. “She had this hair, oh man, it was crazier than mine - just this mass of curls, you know. She’d wrap it up in a scarf when she left the house, her favorite was a blue one with red roses on it. We cooked together a lot when I was younger, which was good, because she had to start working every night later on and I’d cook dinner after school. I got pretty good.”

“What about your dad? Did he ever cook?”

Grantaire’s face fell. “No. No, Dad wouldn’t cook to save his life.”

“I had a foster dad like that, once,” Feuilly said sympathetically. “Wouldn’t do fuck all around the house, the slack bugger. But neither would his wife, come to that.”

“I didn’t know you were in foster care.”

“I was left in a cardboard box outside a hospital when I was two months old,” Feuilly grinned proudly. “I’ve lived with thirteen foster families.”

“Bloody hell. You know Eponine was in foster care too?”

“I’ve heard, but I’ve never had the chance to talk to her about it.” Feuilly poured out the finished sangria. 

“You seem pretty stable for a guy who was raised in thirteen different households,” Grantaire commented, accepting the glass Feuilly handed him with a grateful smile. 

Feuilly shrugged. “I think everyone gets to a point where they realize they can only rely on themselves. I just reached that point kinda early. Like, when I was six.”

Grantaire nodded seriously. “Respect, man.”

 

Feuilly felt an almost physical weight lift from his shoulders as he told Grantaire all about life at the shelter over dinner, grinning when the dark man laughed uproariously at stories about the more mischievous residents and the chaos they’ve caused over the years. He felt almost relaxed by the time they retreated to the fire escape for a cigarette, where Grantaire turned to him with a very serious expression.

“So... you don’t have anywhere to move to, do you?”

Feuilly’s heart sank as he was reminded of his precarious living situation. “Nope.”

“Well, listen - I’m about to rent a studio space, because I’m getting more commissions lately and I’m starting to really need more space than I have here, and besides, I want to branch out into sculpture.” He took a drag of his cigarette before continuing. “Anyway, that frees up the spare room.” He looked at Feuilly pointedly. “I mean, I know this place is kind of small, and I’m kind of an arsehole, but...”

“Hang on - are you offering to rent me your spare room?” Feuilly yelped, almost dropping his cigarette in surprise.

“Well, yeah. I haven’t had a housemate in ages, and I’m sure it’ll be nice to have one that isn’t making meth in the kitchen sink,” Grantaire grinned hopefully, and then laughed when the red-haired man threw his arms around him. 

“You’re a legend,” he mumbled into Grantaire’s shoulder. “You’re a fucking life-saver.”

“I’m sure you’ll be sick of me within a week,” Grantaire warned, hugging him back. “I’m an anti-social prick, and I have alcohol issues, and I always smell like turpentine-”

“Shut up,” Feuilly said firmly, and planted a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek before pulling away. “You’re going to be the best housemate in the world. I can tell.”

“Jehan and Eponine will be over the moon,” Grantaire chuckled. “They’re both over quite a lot, by the way. Is that cool?” 

“That’s cool,” Feuilly assured him, even as his stomach turned a somersault at the thought of seeing Jehan more often, and in a far more intimate setting. Perhaps it was the sangria, but the idea didn’t fill him with the dread he knew it should have. 

“You should ask Jehan for advice about your shelter kids,” Grantaire suggested. “They’re amazing with emotional stuff.”

“Yeah, I should. Maybe I’ll ask them at Voices-” he broke off when Grantaire handed him his phone, the contacts list open to Jehan’s name.

“Call them.”

“Now?! I couldn’t.”

“Come o-o-on, they’re not going to bite.”

“I’m - I’m kind of tipsy, I’ll make a fool of myself!”

“Please, this is Jehan we’re talking about. They deal with _me.”_

“Awh, hell...”

“Just _do it.”_

 

No bathroom was so utterly adored as Jehan’s bathroom, and no one held bathrooms in higher esteem than Jehan. The rituals of preparing oneself to face the day, and, later, washing away the grime of the day’s endeavors were sacred in their eyes. They were currently enjoying the hour they set aside for this purpose at the end of each day, and were lounging in the bathtub filled to the brim with rose-scented bubbles, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, the bathroom window open wide for a cool night breeze and to allow the steam and heady essential oils to perfume the outside world. Every surface of the bathroom was occupied with candles, so many it took Jehan ten minutes to light them all, and they cast a warm glow over the tiles, illuminating the lines and lines of spontaneous scribbles in sharpie ink that covered the walls around the bath tub. Most of their poetry started here.

They took a slow drag of their cigarette, staring in consternation and alarm at the latest cluster of words that had taken form below the soap dish. It was - well, they may as well admit it - erotic. They hadn’t intended it to be. It had just come out like that. 

They jumped when their phone rang from the floor beside them, cursing quietly - they usually remembered to turn it off during their bath. They were about to hit the ‘ignore’ button when they saw the caller ID, and answered with an affectionate sigh.

“Hello, R darling.”

“Hello, Jehan,” replied a voice that was most definitely _not_ Grantaire’s. “It’s Feuilly.”

Jehan nearly dropped their wine. “Oh,” they answered, hoping they didn’t sound as daft as they felt. “Hello.”

“Hello.” Feuilly’s voice was warm, and rather more relaxed than Jehan had ever heard it. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“Oh, no, I was just in the bath,” Jehan blurted before they could stop themself. 

“Oh. Wow. That’s... are you still in the bath now?” Jehan’s cheeks flushed pink at the interest in Feuilly’s voice.

“Well, I was about to get out, but-”

“No, no, don’t get out. Stay. I promise I won’t keep you long.”

“You can keep me as long as you like,” Jehan purred, and Feuilly burst out laughing. 

“No, no, don’t say that. Your mate here let me have sangria, and if you keep being cute I will be forced to tell you how pretty your arse looks in those tight jeans you always wear.” There was a pause, and Jehan could hear Grantaire laughing uproariously in the background, and then; “...shit.”

“If you rude men made sangria and didn’t invite me, it will take many more nice comments about my arse before I can forgive you, Feuilly,” Jehan pouted.

“Lucky I have _endless_ nice things to say about your arse. Your legs, too,” Feuilly chuckled. “Oh, I have fucked this up colossally. I was actually calling for a reason.”

“A reason _other_ than making me blush?”

“Yes - well, you’re much more than a pretty face, you know, and I need your advice.”

Jehan drained their wineglass, suppressing the urge to giggle hysterically. “Go on.”

“Well, the residents at the shelter get kind of edgy,” he sighed. “We don’t have a psychologist, and it’s hard for me to provide adequate emotional support to all of them. Most of them kind of struggle to express their emotions properly, so they end up busting out in problematic ways or just totally crushing them, and... well, you’re very in touch with your emotions, and everyone else’s, too, by the sound of it. What would you recommend?”

Jehan considered. “Do you do creative workshops with them? Or any workshops at all?”

“There’s a lady comes in once a month and does ballroom dancing classes. Does that count?”

“Sort of - but not creative enough. Is that all?”

“Yeah.” Feuilly grimaced. “We can’t really hire anyone, you know, we don’t have the money...”

Jehan hesitated, then asked, “Would you like me to do a poetry workshop?”

“You’d do that?!”

“Well, of course, if you think it would help. I run them at schools and stuff quite a bit, and I could get Enjolras to help me.”

“Jehan,” Feuilly said seriously. “You are an angel.”

“Oh, stop...”

“I mean it. You are a blessing that this world does not deserve.”

“Please, darling, it’s the least I can do.”

“Oi, Jehan, guess what,” Grantaire cried, leaning closer to Feuilly so that he could be heard through the reciever. “Whiskers here is moving in with me.”

Jehan gasped. “Really?”

“Really,” Feuilly chuckled. “I’m getting kicked out of my house, and R said I could take the spare room here.”

“Oh my god! I demand a moving-in party, and you have to dance with me again.”

“Do I now?” Feuilly felt his cheeks flush.

“Yes. And this time, no running away.”

“You won’t be able to get rid of me,” Feuilly’s voice dropped lower, and Jehan shivered. “You’re dangerous, you know. No one can resist your charms for long.”

“You’ve been doing a pretty good job.”

“Oh no, it’s all an act. I’ve been crumbling bit by bit since I first saw you.”

Jehan giggled. “Talk is cheap, Feuilly.”  
“Oh, I can think of some other ways to tell you.”

“Tell me what, exactly?”

“How does that thing go? Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more _hot as fuck-”_

“Are you two seriously doing this _now?!”_ Grantaire howled indignantly as Jehan squealed with laughter. “I’m _right here._ ”

“Shit, I better go,” Feuilly muttered, grinning apologetically at Grantaire. “You take care of yourself, pretty thing.”

“Call me whenever to arrange that workshop,” Jehan gasped, still laughing uncontrollably. “Night, darling.”

 

Jehan settled back into the tub, eyes drawn again to the poem they’d written earlier.

_Last night you had me_

_I watched the stars drift over us_

_Constellations mirrored on your skin_

_I bit my lip, I cried love’s good name_

_You shook like the holy centre of the earth_

_Where the fire was made_

_I fought like hell against the fade_

_But still it came and left empty_

_Sheets where you had never been._

They’d had a dream about Feuilly the night before, waking up sticky with only brief flashes committed to memory; Feuilly’s teeth scraping over their collarbone, his hands on their hips, murmuring words they couldn’t recall in their ear while he pounded into them. Jehan shivered at the thought, trailing fingertips over their inner thighs as heat pooled in their groin. They closed their eyes, imagining their hands were Feuilly’s, imagining his voice whispered against their skin. _‘Pretty thing’. He’d called them ‘pretty thing’._ They teased their hardening cock with feather-light touches, little sighs slipping from their lips. In their mind’s eye, muscles rippled under freckled skin and tender brown eyes raked over them, his mustache prickled against their lips and they could almost taste the carefully applied wax. Their breath caught in their throat as they curled their fingers around their dick, slipping their other hand further down to press against their entrance. _‘Pretty thing,’ he’d whisper as he slid into them. “Jehan, you are an angel.’_ They barely heard the water splashing against the side of the bathtub, or their own whimpers growing louder as they immersed themself in their fantasy. _‘Fuck, baby, you feel so good - you’re beautiful, Jehan, so beautiful.’_ They came with a cry of Feuilly’s name on their lips, screwing their eyes closed against the tears that welled up and spilled over as the aftershocks shook their helpless body mercilessly. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is not entirely original - i drew inspiration from 'The Tree' by Hello Satellites. Jehan's bathtub isn't my original creation either - I don't know who is responsible for all the Jehan's bath headcanons around, but THANK GOD FOR YOU, FRIEND. 
> 
> I'm having a really awful time lately (again) - basically cis gatekeepers throwing up a lot of roadblocks on my transition path. I have an idea for a one-shot (set before this fic) beating itself against my skull so if it's okay, I might do that next before the next real chapter because I wanna take my angst out on fictional characters :3


	11. thinking is one of the most stressful things I've ever come across

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A workshop is a huge success, a conversation is a huge disaster, and there's nothing like coffee with friends to put things into perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed my updates are all over the place?? I'm very sorry. I honestly thought I wouldn't be able to get this up for another couple of weeks but the great thing (?) about working for a bunch of hippies is that half the time they don't give you your work assignments until a day before it's due or something. Which is... stressful, so I'm channelling my stress into Jehan/Feuilly feels.   
> Anyway I do really hope it's okay!! And if you're one of the poor people who fell victim to the angsty-ass oneshot I posted last week, I'M SO SORRY. I HAD A LOT OF FEELINGS. 
> 
> Big love to Luke for all his cheerleading and les mis-headcanon-sharing <3
> 
> Chapter title is from 'Don't You Want To Share The Guilt' by Kate Nash.

Enjolras had to admit, when Jehan had called him and suggested they spend an afternoon with troubled teenagers teaching them to express themselves through poetry, he was hesitant. 

“Enjolras, you’re the one that always says that everyone should have access to creative outlets,” they’d told him sternly, when he confessed that he didn’t think he was the man for the job. “I don’t understand why you would treat residents of an LGBTQ homeless shelter differently to you treat us at Voices. You’ve always been up for helping anyone there.”

“Oh my god, Prouvaire, if you think this is some kind of snobbery bullshit-” Enjolras had exclaimed indignantly, before drawing a deep, calming breath. “Look, I’m just - I’m not good with kids, okay?”

“They’re young adults, darling.”

“They’re _teenagers.”_

“Don’t be a stuffy old codger, they’re not going to bite.”

“Wanna bet?” he’d muttered under his breath, and then sighed. “Alright, okay, I’ll do it - but I think we should get Courfeyrac to help, too. He’s great with kids. Great with everyone, really.”

“That’s an _excellent_ idea.” Enjolras could hear Jehan’s triumphant grin in their voice. “Why don’t you call him, and I’ll text Feuilly and tell him we’re on for Wednesday?”

 

As it turned out, the workshop wasn’t nearly as hellish as he had privately imagined it. It was, of course, entirely voluntary, and only about fifteen of the residents attended, including a slight girl in a too-big black coat who jumped up and ran to Jehan for a hug when the three of them entered. 

“Awhh,” Courfeyrac sighed when Jehan embraced her like a little sister. “I want one.”

“A hug, or a teenager who worships you?” Enjolras muttered, waving at Feuilly as the redhead started towards them from the other side of the room, grinning broadly.

“Both. Both is good. Feuilly! Hey dude!” 

“Thanks for coming, guys,” Feuilly said sincerely, welcoming each of them with a tight hug. “Liv, go sit down with the others so these guys can get started, yeah?”

“‘Kay,” the girl agreed, casting one more adoring glance back at Jehan before scuttling back to her seat. 

Enjolras wasn’t quite sure how he was roped into opening the workshop - by default, he supposed - but his sense of foreboding faded significantly at seeing the little crowd of faces looking up at him.Most of them looked so _eager,_ sitting forward on their seats and watching him with wide eyes as he introduced himself and explained what exactly slam poetry was. Some, though, sat with shoulders hunched and expressions guarded; he wondered for half a second why they were there, if they didn’t want to be, before he realized that they did, of course they did, but they were afraid.

“Did you all bring paper and pen?” he asked. “Okay, if you didn’t, that’s okay, we brought some spare. Put your hand up if you don’t have your stuff, and Courfeyrac will come and give you some. Cool. Okay.” He turned to the large portable whiteboard, borrowed from LaMarque’s office, armed with a marker. “Lets get on this; give me some emotions. Strong emotions. Just shout ‘em out.”

Silence met his request, until he turned back to them with a frown. “Really? You guys don’t know any emotions? Has the robot invasion begun already?”

A titter ran around the room, before Jehan’s little friend, Liv, spoke up timidly. “Happiness?” 

“Happiness, great, what else?” Enjolras started scribbling on the whiteboard.

A different voice spoke out this time, louder, more sure. “Anger.”

“Great, yes, keep ‘em coming.”

“Fear.”

“Excellent.”

“Sadness.”

“Absolutely.”

“Love.”

“Oh, yes, love, fantastic - because love is a very complex emotion, isn’t it? Who can tell me what different kinds of love we can feel?”

“Love for like, your boyfriend?”

“Yes, that would be romantic love. Great. What else?”

“Love for pizza!” someone yelled, met with a burst of laughter. Enjolras turned back to the group with a grin.

“There are not enough poems in the world about pizza. It’s a crying shame. What else?”

“Love for your friends.”

“That’s an extremely important love.”

“Love for a place, or a thing.”

“Great.”

“Love for yourself.”

Enjolras whipped back around. “Who said that?” 

A dark young woman with a round face framed by wild curls raised her hand slowly, looking rather uncomfortable.

“What’s your name?”

“Sharnee.”

“Snaps for Sharnee, guys, because she just picked _the_ most important form of love.” He clicked his fingers, smiling at the girl as the rest of the room caught on. She smiled shyly back. 

“Alright, I think we’ve got enough for love, now. What are some other emotions?”

“Pride?”

“Wonderful.”

“Shame.”

“ _Yes.”_

It continued like that until the whiteboard was full of Enjolras’s untidy scrawl. 

“Right, what we’re gonna do now is; you’re going to grab your pen and paper, pick an emotion - whichever one speaks most to you - and you’re going to write down all the things that make you feel like that. We’ve got fifteen minutes. Go.”

 

Jehan handled structure, which meant they had the group each finding their own space in the room, far enough away from each other to mumble their lines to themselves, matching words, finding rhythm, discovering new music in articulation. Jehan flitted between them, listening, offering encouragements and suggestions, nodding their head and clicking their fingers with the beat of syllables. By the time Courfeyrac took over to talk delivery, the energy in the room ebbed and flowed restlessly through the bodies in the room, desperate for direction. Thankfully, Courfeyrac’s ‘vocal warm-up’ routine was mostly jumping up and down and shaking limbs while shouting at varying pitches - he insisted that Jehan and Enjolras joined them, though Enjolras always took longer than anyone else to let go of self-consciousness and get into it properly. The air was calmer, more controlled, when Courfeyrac had them all returning to their seats with flushed faces and slightly embarrassed smiles, and he had each of them stand and speak one word from their poem, just one word, with as much illustrative tone and gesture behind it as they could muster, before grinning at them all.

“Right. Who wants to read what they’ve got? Don’t worry, you don’t have to, but I do recommend that if you want to read at all, you read now. You won’t find a safer audience.”

The group looked at each other, some shrinking back into their seats, suddenly shy, while some looked like they were trying to muster the courage. And then the girl in the oversized coat stood up. “I’ll read.”

Courfeyrac beamed, and next to Enjolras, Jehan let out a little whoop of approval. 

“Olivia, wasn’t it? Awesome, sister, lets hear what you’ve got.”

The girl cleared her throat nervously. “I mean, it’s not very good, and it’s very short, this is my first time writing and stuff and it’s not quite finished, but okay, here goes;

_“I’d like to talk about hope_

_Because in this world there’s nothing dearer_

_and nothing nearer even when we can’t see it._

_It wears a million different faces_

_inhabits a billion different places;_

_New friends, old friends, strangers, stones_

_the crowd that carries pride in their very bones_

_survivors standing tall, or a scrawl on the wall_

_or the song sung in answer to solidarity’s call._

“Uhm. Yeah. That’s it.” Her face flushed pink as her peers burst into enthusiastic applause, and Jehan raised their voice in a cheer that could easily have been a war-cry while Enjolras and Courfeyrac looked at each other delightedly. 

“Olivia, girrrrl,” Courfeyrac enthused, snapping his fingers while the cheering died down. “Promise me you’ll keep working on that bad boy. Promise me. You promise? Good, because I think we’re going to see you make some big waves in the poetry scene. For real. Okay, lets give Olivia an extra round of applause for breaking the ice - now who wants to go next?”

 

“Oh my gods,” Feuilly cried, approaching them at the end of the workshop while the teenagers filed out of the room. “Guys, that was _fucking amazing._ I can’t thank you enough. Bless you all.” He made a show of bowing reverently to each of them.

“Please, it was a pleasure,” Jehan laughed, while Enjolras groaned in embarrassment and grabbed Feuilly by the back of his shirt to tug him upright.

“Seriously, man, anytime,” Courfeyrac agreed.

“They were actually really, really great kids,” Enjolras admitted with a grin. “There was a great vibe. I’m really glad we did this.”

“I’m gonna need about six coffees, though.” Courfeyrac stretched, letting out a breath. “That was intense, and I have an essay to finish when I get home. I thought I saw a coffee place up the road, you guys up for it?”

Jehan and Enjolras nodded, but Feuilly winced. “Can’t, got about a million things to do here before I knock off - but I’ll see you guys at Voices, right? Jehan, can I borrow you for like, two seconds, before you go?” He nodded towards his office with a pleading twist to his lip.

“Of course. You two go ahead, I’ll meet you at the cafe, yes?” they murmured to Enjolras, giving the blond’s hand a quick squeeze before drifting after Feuilly with a smile. “Everything alright, darling?”

“Yes - well, possibly not. I mean-” Feuilly blew out a breath, running a hand through his hair as he gently closed the door behind Jehan. “I need to talk to you about the other night.”

“Mmm?” Jehan put their head on one side, their smile fading slightly at the distress on Feuilly’s face. “Do you mean the conversation we had?”

“Yes. That.” Wisps of fiery hair, tugged loose from his ponytail, floated around his freckled face, adding to his harried appearance. “I just - fuck -”

“Feuilly, are you alright?” Jehan reached to put a hand on his shoulder, but drew back when Feuilly flinched slightly. “You seem so upset.”

Feuilly pressed his palms together, raising them in front of his face in a placating gesture. “Just... please don’t feel bad about this.”

“What? What am I not feeling bad about?” Jehan was starting to feel distinctly nervous now.  

“I may have... given you the wrong idea.”

“O-okay...” Jehan subconsciously wrapped their arms around their stomach. The room felt suddenly very cold. “What idea exactly is the ‘wrong idea’?”

“The idea that I am... you know... interested. In you.” Feuilly was very pale under his freckles, and he wouldn’t meet Jehan’s eyes. He kept glancing down at his shoes, at his desk, at Jehan’s hands clenched on the hem of their sweater. “Because I just wanted to make sure you know that I’m not. I mean, you’re nice but, I’m, um. I don’t want to lead you on,” he finished lamely.

Jehan’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to lead me on,” they deadpanned. Feuilly flushed as they continued. “Listen, Feuilly, it’s fine. I get it. But while I’m sure it was a great laugh and everyone thinks it’s just hilarious, calling up someone who respects and admires you to fake-flirt with them while you ask them for a favor is incredibly fucking cruel.”

Feuilly looked up at last, horrified. “Jehan - that’s not-” 

“Please,” Jehan cut him off, turning towards the door before the tears burning in their eyes could spill over. “Just don’t ever do it again. To _anyone.”_

And they were gone, closing the door behind them just a little too hard, leaving Feuilly standing stunned by the wave of regret crashing down on him.

 

When Jehan joined Enjolras and Courfeyrac at the cafe down the road, their eyes were red and a little puffy and they were sniffling. 

“Jehan, oh my god, what is it?” Courfeyrac cried, standing up to throw his arms around his friend and draw them into the seat next to him. Enjolras leaned across the table to grab their hand, his handsome face a picture of concern. 

“Nothing, darlings, it’s nothing, please don’t fuss,” they gave a watery smile. “I just... got very emotional about the kids, and their poetry, you know. It’s just very touching.”

Courfeyrac smiled and pressed a kiss to their temple. “You hippy,” he said affectionately. 

Enjolras looked hard at Jehan. “Just the poetry?” he asked carefully.

Jehan’s heart sank. Enjolras was borderline impossible to lie to, the man spotted insincerity like an owl spots a fieldmouse. They looked at him with wide eyes, hoping to tell him without words _not to make me tell, please don’t make me tell._

Enjolras got the message. He gave Jehan’s hand a squeeze and smiled kindly. “It was a really emotional experience, wasn’t it?” 

“Can we order coffee now?” Courfeyrac asked suddenly, drawing away from Jehan to flag down a waiter. “I am literally dying here.”

 

“How’s Grantaire?” Enjolras asked Jehan, when the three of them had their hands wrapped around steaming cups. Jehan beamed at him.

“He’s good. Great, actually.”

“Bet he’s excited to have Feuilly move in,” Courf chuckled. Jehan’s smile slipped ever so slightly but they hitched it back in place before either of their friends could notice.

“Very. And he’s just signed the lease for this beautiful studio space at the old convent, it’s got so much natural light and an amazing view over the gardens, and he might even branch out into sculpture after his next exhibition.”

“When’s the exhibition?” Enjolras asked, keeping his voice deliberately light as he sipped his macchiato. 

“Two weeks. It’s at this new gallery, just opened up last month. The curator’s really lovely, very down to earth. I’ll take you both and show you, if you like.”

“Sounds like a party.” Courfeyrac grinned at Enjolras. “It was great seeing R at the rally, wasn’t it, Enj?”

“Mm,” Enjolras hummed noncommittally, playing with his spoon.

“Don’t pretend it didn’t make your week,” Courfeyrac snorted, and turned to Jehan. “He’s been going on and on about how psyched he is that R wants to get into activism.”

“Can you not,” Enjolras mumbled, color blooming in his cheeks. “It’s just good to see people start to care, is all.” 

“Oh, that’s all. Uh huh.” Courfeyrac shot him a sly grin over the rim of his cup, and Enjolras glared.

“I said _can you not,”_ he hissed, and to Jehan, he said, “I just hope it wasn’t empty words.”

Jehan winced. “Darling, you don’t do ‘Aire justice.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m doing him _perfect_ justice. He acted like a spectacular fuckwit on multiple occasions, and yes, he apologized, but it’s too soon to see how sincere he was. I have every right to be suspicious.”

“Mm, he’s got a point,” Courfeyrac conceded, nodding seriously. “I mean, _I_ think you should give him the benefit of the doubt, Enj, but you gotta go with your instincts, hey.”

“No, no, fuck instincts.” Enjolras waved his words aside. “If I went with my instincts I’d be tripping over myself to forgive him and every other ignorant little shit that I’ve had to call out - it’s my _experience_ that tells me people need to prove that they’ve learned before you can trust them.”

“Do you know how big a deal it is that ‘Aire went to that rally?” Jehan spoke up, leaning across the table and looking at Enjolras intently. “Of course you don’t, because you don’t know him. But I do. And I can tell you that Grantaire has never so much as signed a petition before, let alone attended a rally for _anything,_ even something that affected him directly, no matter how many times I invited him along. He was very rude to you, and you were right to be angry, and I wouldn’t blame you for holding a grudge if you wanted, but if it’s a real heartfelt gesture you want, that was it.”

Enjolras blinked. He was silent for a moment while Jehan leaned back in their seat and Courfeyrac sipped his latte. 

“Why did he never sign petitions?” he asked eventually, his voice small, a note of disappointed bafflement creeping into his tone. 

Jehan smiled sadly. “I told you, darling - ‘Aire has been given very little reason in his life to believe that people are good.”

“He had you,” Courfeyrac said suddenly. “He had a genuine friend.” He glanced at Enjolras. “That’s more than some people have, in high school.”

“But... but we can’t compare like that,” Enjolras murmured thoughtfully. “Because everyone has different levels of... of tolerance, you know, for traumatic shit, and it’s not right to say that someone should be this way or that way because someone else is...” he heaved a sigh as Courfeyrac and Jehan beamed at him. 

“Are you finally internalizing what Combeferre’s been saying for years?” Courf asked. “He’ll be so pleased.”

Enjolras shrugged, and after another moment, looked up at his friends with a frown. “Have I been an arsehole?”

“No,” Jehan and Courf replied immediately, in perfect unison. 

“But you’re not obliged to be a hard-arse all the time, if you don’t feel like it, just like you’re not obliged to be Mother Theresa,” Courfeyrac added.

Jehan reached across the table to give his hand a squeeze. “Lets make a deal; if you put some faith in Grantaire, and then he gives you a reason to seriously regret it, I’ll kick his arse myself.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHHHH PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK GUYS YOUR FEEDBACK SUSTAINS ME


	12. "Like Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette and Marius discuss something important, Bossuet surprises everyone and Feuilly and Jehan's reconciliation is rudely interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STRAP YOURSELVES IN GUYS THIS IS THE LONGEST MOTHERFUCKING CHAPTER YET AND IT'S NOT WITHOUT SOME TURBULENCE
> 
> HUGE TRIGGER WARNINGS for stolen generation reference, transphobic and homophobic slurs, violence, and panic attacks. 
> 
> THIS IS FOR EVERYONE WHO HAS SENT ME LOVE AND ENCOURAGEMENT AND RESPECTED THAT MY WRITING TIME IS NOT UNLIMITED AND I'M TRYING MY BEST - I love you guys. You are a gift and a blessing.

 

The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over Cosette’s bedroom, where she sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by scattered silk flowers, spools of thread, silver spikes and bits of ribbon. Marius was sprawled on the rug a few feet away, tapping away industriously at his laptop. The pair had been working in comfortable silence for about an hour now, a happy compromise after Cosette had discovered that Marius had been neglecting his assignments in favor of spending time with her and Eponine.

“Marius?”

“Hm?” he turned to her with a delighted smile, almost as if he had forgotten she was there and was pleasantly surprised to see her. Her heart swelled in her chest as she smiled back.

“My fingers are getting stiff - I’m going to make a cup of tea. Would you like some?”

“Please.” He scrambled to his feet with all the grace of a foal standing up for the first time, offering a hand to help Cosette up. “I’ll come with you.”

She giggled as she picked her way through her scattered craft supplies towards the door. “I _can_ make tea by myself, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Marius grinned. “But my eyes are getting sore from looking at that screen. They need to look at you for a bit to recover.”

“Awwh,” Cosette cooed, skipping ahead of him downstairs to the kitchen. “Such a charmer.”

Cosette’s father arrived home while they stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, his affectionate smile wilting slightly when he saw that Marius was here too. Marius straightened his shirt self-consciously as Cosette rushed over to kiss his cheek. Cosette’s Papa made him thoroughly nervous.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said politely, offering a hand to shake. “How was your day?”

“I told you, lad, call me Jean.” The older man’s voice was gruff, but the corner of his mouth twitched as he shook Marius’s hand firmly. “And it was fine, just fine, thanks.”

“Kettle’s just boiled, Papa. Want some tea?”

“Please, love.” Jean turned a grateful smile on his daughter. “I have a bunch of paperwork to get through - can you bring it to my study?”

Marius let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when Jean left the kitchen.

“Your dad scares me.”

“Papa’s a big teddy bear,” Cosette laughed. “Honestly, Marius, relax. If he didn’t like you, you’d know about it, believe me.”

“That... that doesn’t help,” Marius whined. He hovered nervously at the foot of the stairs while Cosette delivered Jean’s tea with another kiss on the cheek before they ascended to her room again.

“How was your coffee date with ‘Ponine yesterday?” Cosette asked, when they were settled on her bed, legs entwined and shoulders pressed together.

Marius hummed as he sipped his tea. “She seemed really down. She’d just had an appointment with the social worker, and they’re no closer to finding Azelma and Gavroche. She’s bleeding herself dry paying for that two-room apartment so they can come live with her when they find them, but... well, it’s all for nothing if they can’t be found.”

Cosette grimaced. “Poor thing. I wish... I wish we could help somehow.”

“Me too,” Marius sighed. “I mean, she didn’t even want to tell me that, you know? She only told me because I insisted she hadn’t been herself lately and I was worried about her. She’d carry it all on her own if we let her.”

Cosette was silent for a moment, sipping her tea. Then, “Marius, how long have Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet been together?”

Marius looked at her, surprised. “I’m not sure - longer than I’ve known them. I think Bossuet and Joly were together first, and then Bossuet met Musichetta, and really liked her, and introduced her to Joly.”

“How did it, like, happen? I mean how do you even broach the idea of a polyamorous relationship with someone?” Cosette murmured wonderingly, as though the answer was the deepest secret of the universe. Marius glanced at her affectionately.

“Knowing those three, it was probably like, Bossuet and Joly followed ‘Chetta round like lovesick puppies until she got the hint and took them both home.”

“Shut up, I bet it was beautiful and romantic,” she laughed. “Maybe they sent her flowers. Like, from both of them.”

“Joly hates flowers. His hayfever is the worst. He once scolded Jehan for wearing real flowers in their hair at Voices and Jehan nearly cried.”

“Awwh, poor Jehan!!”

“No, no, it was so cute in the end, because Jehan got really sad and disappeared for a bit, right, and then Combeferre went all schoolteachery at Joly, and he felt really guilty, so he borrowed ‘Chetta’s nail scissors and sat in the corner making Jehan a flower crown out of napkins from the bar and a strand of wool from his scarf. And then Jehan came back with a packet of Zyrtec for Joly and Joly was all like ‘no don’t look it’s not finished!’ but Jehan had already seen it and then they _did_ start crying because they’d thrown their real flowers in the river and they were so touched. When Joly finished it Jehan wore this thing, I swear, the most trashy flower crown ever to see the light of day, they wore it all night – and they’ve still got it. It’s on one of their straw hats.”

Cosette grabbed her face with both hands, her eyes wide. “That’s so _freaking adorable_ I’m actually dying. Nope, that’s it, I’m dead. Bye.” She slumped dramatically against his shoulder, somehow holding her mug of tea steady as she closed her eyes and let her head loll.

Marius looked at her uncertainly. “Erm. Cosette? Wake up, poppet.” He reached over and walked his fingers across her stomach when she didn’t respond, grinning slyly. “This is a nice tummy you’ve got here. Be a shame if someone _tickled it –“_ he pressed his fingertips into her side and laughed when she sat up with a yelp, splashing a little of her tea on the doona cover.

“You little _horror –_ I’ll get you for that later, I swear.” She threw a threatening glare at him, mopping up the tea with her skirt while he sniggered.

“Sorry, baby.”

“No you’re not.” She put her mug down on the window sill and threw a leg over Marius’s lap, straddling him. She fisted a hand in the front of his shirt, smirking when his eyes widened. “But you _will_ be.” She pressed a firm kiss to his lips, but pulled away when he tried to deepen it, catching his hands when they moved to slide up her thighs. “Now hang on, I actually need to talk to you.”

Marius whined. “Really? It can’t wait for when you’re not, you know, on my lap, looking really, really pretty?”

“Nope.” She raised his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “This is important.”

He made an obvious effort not to pout. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“Good.” Her blue eyes were suddenly very serious. “You know I love you, right?”

“You might have mentioned it,” Marius smiled self-consciously, a hint of a blush rising under his freckles. “I love you too.”

Cosette drew a deep breath. “Do you... do you think it's possible to be in love with more than one person at a time?”

Marius frowned. “Like Joly and 'Chetta and Bossuet? Of course. They're madly in love.”

Cosette nodded. “Well. Yes. Of course. But... I mean... for you and me.” She bit her lip, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

Marius put his head on one side. “Are you saying you want another boyfriend? I mean, that's cool, but I don't know, I mean I've never been with a guy before so – no?” Cosette was shaking her head emphatically.

“Not another boyfriend,” she said firmly. “But you're on the right track, I guess.”

“A girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Marius nodded thoughtfully. “Like, separately? Like you have me and then you have her, or like, all together, like Joly-”

“-And Bossuet and Musichetta,” she finished. “Yes. Like that.”

“Oh.” Marius thought for a moment, and then a bashful little smile started to spread over his lips, the color in his cheeks deepening.

“What are you thinking?”

“N-nothing.” He raised a hand to hide his smile, avoiding Cosette's eyes.

“Come on, sweetie, tell me!” She tugged his hand away from his face, giggling and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I... well... do you have someone in mind?”

“Do _you?”_

“No, no, you first!”

Cosette buried her face in his shoulder, flushing deep red. “Oh, fine... look, I do really, really like someone. I wouldn't have suggested this, otherwise, and I think you maybe like her too, I mean you spend so much time with her and I see the way you look at her sometimes, when she's reading her poetry, and-”

Marius gasped, grabbing Cosette's shoulders and pulling her back to look into her face. “You're talking about Eponine, aren't you?”

Cosette nodded, and Marius threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly. “Yes,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by her breast. “Yes. I love her too.”

Cosette laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You said 'love'.”

He looked up, his eyes wide. “Shit. I mean- is that weird?”

“No. Well – I don't know,” she confessed. “But I feel the same way – everything is just, _brighter_ when she's there, you know?”

“Yes.” Marius nodded furiously. “And I just want to grab her hand when we're walking with her and that face she pulls, that sassy little sneer when something annoys her – it's so _cute_ I just want to-”

“-Kiss it off?” Cosette giggled ecstatically.

“Yes!! But... oh, it's not going to happen,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I've had a crush on her for ages – since the first time she rescued me from a fight, actually – but I'm just a friend to her, she probably thinks I'm pathetic. She's probably going to hook up with Bahorel, she hangs out with him a lot, and he's, you know, he's more her type.”

Cosette stared at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?! Have you _seen_ how she looks at you?”

He frowned. “What?”

“Marius, Marius, baby boy.” She rolled her eyes skyward. “If Eponine isn't head over heels for you I swear to God I will eat that headband I'm making for her.”

Marius glanced dubiously at the half-finished mess of red and black silk flowers and silver spikes. “I don't... I don't think that's necessary.”

“She wouldn't hesitate to be with you,” Cosette went on thoughtfully. “The question is, would she want to be with me, and even if she would, would she want to be with _both_ of us – because she might not, you know.”

“No, I know,” Marius sighed. “How... how do we do this?”

“We need advice,” Cosette said firmly.

“From who?”

She rolled her eyes again. “Who do you think, you precious dork?”

 

 

Grantaire had arranged to meet Jehan in the city before Voices so they could arrive together, and he almost walked right past them waiting under the clocktower. Clad in a long black overcoat, head bowed and hands dug deep into pockets, Jehan blended in uncharacteristically with the crowd, and it was only the emerald green beanie - that Grantaire recognised as one of his own - pulled low over their loosely braided hair and the lilac Doc Martens laced with mismatched ribbons that made him double-take.

“Jehan?”

They looked up with a tired smile. “Hello, darling.”

Grantaire hugged them, frowning when they clung just a little tighter, a little longer than usual. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“Mm.” Jehan nodded, pulling back eventually and straightening their beanie, avoiding Grantaire's eyes.

“Are you hiding some amazing sequined cocktail dress under there?” Grantaire teased, tugging at Jehan's coat. “Gonna throw it off and wow the crowd before you read, you diva?”

Jehan didn't smile. “I'm not reading tonight.”

Grantaire's face fell. “What? Why not?”

“I just don't feel like it,” they shrugged. “I need a little break.”

Grantaire nodded, trying not to look too concerned as he looked into Jehan's face for clues as to their mood, and found none. “Fair enough.”

They walked together in silence, Jehan slipping their arm through Grantaire's and pressing themself close against his shoulder, until Grantaire wrapped his arm around their waist and felt them relax minutely.

He paused at the door to the Musain, casting one more worried glance up at Jehan. “Jehan – anything you want to talk about, before we go in there?” Jehan shook their head, but Grantaire continued. “We don't have to do this tonight. We could go back to mine, we can watch Ghibli movies and you can let me paint on you.”

Jehan smiled, genuine warmth creeping into their expression this time. “I want that, that needs to happen soon, please – but I have to be here tonight, I really do.”

“Why?”

Jehan looked up the stairs, setting their jaw resolutely. “Because I have a place here, and nobody can make me feel like I don't.”

Grantaire stared after them as they ascended the stairs, bringing their heavy boots down just that tiny bit harder than necessary, as if claiming ground with every footfall.

 

It didn't escape Grantaire's notice that Jehan didn't say hello to Feuilly and Musichetta as they arrived, deliberately slipping away when he drifted over to the bar to shake Feuilly's hand enthusiastically. They looked rather relieved when he made his way over to join them where they stood with Eponine, Cosette, Enjolras and Marius, slipping their hand into his as soon as he was close enough and holding it tight as the group chattered away about some potential fundraiser or other, their voice slowly growing in strength and confidence when Grantaire squeezed back. When Combeferre and Courfeyrac appeared and wrapped them in a sort of sandwich-hug, a bit of their usual glow started to rise back into their face – still more when Courfeyrac grabbed Grantaire's arm and tugged him into the hug too, and suddenly everyone was involved, including Bossuet, Joly and Bahorel, who must have just arrived. Grantaire was so relieved to hear Jehan's delighted giggle that it took him several seconds to realize that the arm around his own shoulders belonged to Enjolras, and then he forgot to breathe until the group hug started to break apart.

By the time they sat down for the readings, Jehan on Grantaire's lap as usual, they looked almost back to their usual self, smiling serenely as Enjolras took the stage.

“It is my great pleasure to introduce our first poet tonight - he’s not exactly a new face at Voices, but definitely a new face behind the mic.” Enjolras was beaming all over his face, and Grantaire could feel the barely contained excitement radiating from him from across the room. “Lets give a warm Voices welcome to my friend and yours - _Bossuet!”_

Jehan’s mouth dropped open as Bossuet shuffled out of the corner he had been sharing with Joly, and around the room, Courfeyrac’s, Eponine’s, Marius’s, Bahorel’s and Feuilly’s did the same. Combeferre’s eyebrows had shot up into his hairline. Joly was bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking even more eager and excited than Enjolras, and Musichetta actually climbed up onto the bar to perch on it for a better view, grinning all over her face.

“Hey guys - oop-” Bossuet tripped on the mic stand, hand shooting out to catch it before it crashed to the floor, shooting Enjolras an apologetic grin as the room let out a collective burst of laughter. “Ha. Classic. Um, yeah, hey everyone. Look, I figured I’ve been living vicariously through you talented buggers long enough, so I knocked up something of my own. Hope you like it.

_My father was four when he left his mother_

_In a government plane clutching his little sisters hand_

_And he looked down at the red sand_

_As they took him away from his people and his land_

_To an island where the hands that held his were a different color_

_To the hands that he knew_

_And he grew up there in his white mission clothes_

_With the other motherless brown boys.”_

“Fu-uck,” Jehan breathed, leaning back against Grantaire as Bossuet went on to recount how his father never saw his mother again, and only a month ago, Bossuet had stood with his arm around him at the grave of the grandmother he’d never met, holding his dad while he sobbed like a child. Grantaire was startled to feel a lump rising in his throat when Bossuet’s voice cracked - smiling, stubbornly optimistic Bossuet, scrubbing a hand over his eyes before punching out the final line.

“‘ _Thanks for bringing me into the world, Mum -_

_You did - you did your best.’”_

The room erupted in cheers and applause. Enjolras stood at the edge of the stage, stomping his feet and roaring fierce approval while Joly threaded through the crowd to throw his arms around his teary boyfriend.

“Fuck _yeah_ that’s my boy!” Musichetta’s voice carried over the din; Joly blanched when he looked over and saw her standing on the bar, whipping a tea towel over her head, but people had gathered to congratulate Bossuet, surrounding him and effectively blocking him from storming over to scold her while Feuilly coaxed her down with a glass of wine.

Grantaire had to admit, he sort of tuned out for most of the other poems - he kept glancing over to the bar, where Bossuet was sitting with Musichetta on his lap and Joly perched on the bar behind him, kneading his shoulders. He had snapped back to his usual cheerful self in no time at all - Grantaire supposed that must be easy with not one, but _two_ doting partners - and he would never in a million years have guessed that a man so sunny could come from a background so fraught.

He snapped to attention when Enjolras took the stage, though, with fire in his voice and words like thunder; everyone did. Grantaire didn't need to see the faces of those watching, he could feel their spirits soaring around him, feel the sparks of joyous rebellion crackling between them like electricity, and he clung to Jehan and beamed all over his face as dizzying hope rose hot and bright in his chest.

“ _...We drench the world a new color_

_Call forth what is deeper_

_Pull wide the curtain of separation_

_Show beauty for what she is-_

_We tell stories, they stand up and scream_

_We have something to reveal_

_Beneath the wheels of injustice_

_We jam a spoke into those gears_

_That move those cogs that move_

_The wheels of the machine_

_That churns out a fake reality_

_Let gravity be flipped on it's head_

_Till the world turns upside-down_

_By our stories_

_With freedom on our lips and_

_Revolution in our hearts_

_We shall sing our songs louder than their war-drums_

_And bigger than their 'me firsts'_

_And brighter than their neon signs_

_And with fire in our bones_

_We will shake and move this mountain._

_Until the day that we shall pirouette_

_Upon the graves of these dividing lines-_

_We tell stories.”_

Enjolras's voice gentled, grew softer, and then died with murmured thanks and a humble bow of his head – and Grantaire's cheer stuck in his throat when Enjolras looked up, met his eyes, and smiled.

 

Behind the bar, Grantaire could see Feuilly casting abortive glances over at them – or, more specifically, at Jehan – while he wiped down the bar.

“Hey – lets go say hello to Feuilly.”

Jehan paled. “Uh, you know, I don't want to bother him, he looks busy-”

“What are you-” Grantaire started to ask, but stopped when Bahorel's immense shadow fell over them both.

“You didn't read, Jehan,” he said, sounding almost reproachful.

Jehan ducked their head. “I... I just didn't have anything for tonight.”

Bahorel nodded, and held out his hand to pull them to their feet. “How good was Bossuet, though?!”

Jehan beamed as Bahorel helped Grantaire up too. “Amazing. Fucking mind-blowing, Gods, I knew he had it in him, I knew it.”

“Well, _I_ didn't,” Bahorel grumbled, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders and steering them towards the bar before Jehan can protest. “Oi, Ginger!” Jehan felt their heart plummet when Feuilly turned, smiling at the three of them. “A round for your favorites?”

“Mine's a soda water,” Grantaire interjected quickly.

Feuilly tapped the side of his nose at Grantaire before turning to Jehan. “How about you, Jehan? Cocktail?”

“Just a beer is fine,” they murmured, fiddling with the end of their braid and looking resolutely at anything but Feuilly. His smile slipped a little, but he hitched it back in place without missing a beat.

“I missed hearing your stuff tonight,” he told Jehan conversationally. Jehan looked at him at last, and their eyes were so full of reproach that Feuilly nearly dropped the two pint glasses he was holding.

“Guys, I'll be back, I need some air,” they muttered, ducking out from under Bahorel's arm and starting towards the stairs.

“Wait, I'll come with you,” Grantaire called, sounding mildly alarmed, but Jehan waved him away.

“No, darling, it's okay, I need some space,” they said firmly, before disappearing.

Grantaire turned back to Bahorel and Feuilly, slightly hurt bafflement written all over his face. “Shit.”

“The fuck's up with them?” Bahorel asked, nonplussed.

“They've been weird today,” Grantaire murmured, shaking his head. “I thought it might be dysphoria, but they're usually okay to talk to me about that. They won't tell me what's up.”

Feuilly groaned, pitching forward to thunk his head on the bar.

“Dude, what?” Bahorel stared at him.

“It's my fault,” he moaned against the varnished wood. “It's all my stupid fucking fault. I fucked up. I fucked up so bad.”

Grantaire's eyes widened.  _“What??”_

Feuilly looked up at Grantaire pitifully. “Please don't kill me. No, actually, fuck that, please _do_ kill me, I think I'd rather be dead than live after seeing that look on their face-”

Grantaire crouched slightly, resting his chin on the bar so he was at Feuilly's eye level. “Feuilly, for the sake of all the fucks, _tell me what happened._ ”

“Okay. Okay.” Feuilly straightened up. “Well, last week we flirted on the phone, and after that I started freaking out, right, because I can't be in a relationship, Jesus, I don't have the time or the energy to make a relationship work. And I felt horrible because they were being so _cute,_ they must have fancied me back, you know?”

“Oh, you think?!” Grantaire scoffed, his face darkening.

Feuilly winced. “I didn't _mean_ to hurt them. I was trying _not_ to. I tried to tell them, after the workshop, I tried to tell them that I was sorry for flirting with them and I didn't mean to lead them on, but it all came out wrong, and now they think... they think I was only pretending to flirt with them.”

“You absolute colossal fucking _fool.”_ Musichetta had appeared at his elbow, a look of horrified disbelief on her face. “You masochistic self-sacrificing _arsehole_ , Feuilly, did I really just hear that shit?!”

“Christ, where did you even come from,” Feuilly muttered, throwing his hands up in surrender as Grantaire raised his eyes to the ceiling, lips moving in a silent prayer for patience.

“Right, Ginger,” Bahorel boomed, leveling a finger at Feuilly. “Do you or do you not want Jehan six ways from Sunday?”

“I do, but-”

“Then for the love of all that is holy, stop making up stupid excuses to keep yourself miserable, get out there, and fucking fix this.”

“I will fire you if you don't,” Musichetta added, but caved when Feuilly turns to her, horrified. “Okay, no I won't, that's a massive bluff, but I will be _so mad.”_

Grantaire fixed Feuilly with a hard stare. “Come on. I'm going with you.”

Feuilly scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. Okay, I'm going.”

 

“I don't get you,” Grantaire grumbled as they descended the stairs. “You have everything going for you. You're attractive, and funny, and reliable – and Jehan is crazy about you. Believe me when I say they wouldn't be this cut up if they weren't. And you want to take away their choice to take a chance on your mutual feelings and date you because of some hypothetical future fuck-up?” He shook his head. “Fuck's sake, man.”

“I don't know what the fuck you want me to say,” Feuilly groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I fucked up. I acknowledge that completely. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, I'm being eaten alive from the inside out by sorry and I'd really rather you just punch me and get it over with than make me feel worse.”

Grantaire glanced at him, softening, and stopping him with a hand on his shoulder when they reached the doorway. “Dude, hey, I'm not going to punch you.”

Feuilly laughed mirthlessly. “Whatever happened to 'they're my best friend, and I used to be a boxing instructor'?”

“I never said no second chances,” Grantaire smiled wryly. “Look, sorry for making you feel like shit. This is probably fixable, alright? I mean I don't know, Jehan has a tendency to brood over painful things-” Feuilly winced - “But they're also very forgiving, so it's quite possible that everything will be okay.”

 

Jehan was sitting in the shadow of a doorway further down the alley, almost invisible in their black overcoat but for the glow at the end of their cigarette. They didn't move when Feuilly and Grantaire approached.

“Jehan?” Grantaire leaned on the wall next to the doorway. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“Fine,” Jehan sighed tiredly. “I appreciate your concern, both of you, but I did say I needed space.”

Feuilly stepped closer from where he was hovering nervously behind Grantaire. “I promise, Jehan, we'll be out of your face in two seconds – I just really, really need a word with you.”

“What more could you possibly have to say to me?” Jehan asked coldly.

“Okay, you know what, I'm going to be just down here-” Grantaire muttered as Feuilly cringed. “I'm going to let you two talk it out.” He shuffled several metres down the alleyway, leaning against the grimy wall to roll a cigarette.

Feuilly sat down cautiously on the step. “Can I sit here?”

Jehan shrugged, blowing out their reply with a stream of sweet-smelling smoke. “It's a free country, or so I'm told.”

“Can we make a deal?” Jehan shrugged again. “Can we just agree right now to be completely real with each other and say exactly what we mean?”

Jehan let out a bitter little laugh. “I was always real with you, Feuilly. Always. You're the one who started playing mind games – and now I'm trying to protect myself, and you can't stand that.”

Feuilly ran a hand through his hair. “Yes – yes, you're right. I'm not being fair. Okay. How about you let me tell you the truth, and then when I'm done you can play all the mind games with me that you like?”

Jehan looked at him, eyes narrowed and suspicious as they took a deep drag on their cigarette and exhaled it over Feuilly's head before replying. “Okay.”

Feuilly hesitated, looking beseechingly up into Jehan's face before beginning. “I wasn't pretending to flirt with you,” he confessed in a rush. “I meant every word I said, on the phone. What I didn't mean was when I said I wasn't interested in you. That – _that_ was the lie.” Jehan's eyes widened slightly. The meager light from the grimy streetlight and the glow from their cigarette threw their sharp cheekbones and high brows into sharp relief, but the green in their eyes was as vivid as if they held tiny twin candles inside. Feuilly swallowed hard. “I'm interested in you,” he clarified weakly. “I'm very, very interested in you.”

Jehan stared at him. “I don't understand,” they said eventually, and their voice was so small that Feuilly's heart clenched in his chest. “Why would you say you weren't?”

“That's an excellent question, and I'm afraid the answer is pretty sub-par,” Feuilly grimaced. “I couldn't stand the thought that I might get into a relationship with you, and then let you down.”

“Why would you let me down?”

“I work so much, I don't have much spare time, and I get really, really tired and emotional sometimes, I don't look after myself very well, I eat a lot of crap food and drink way too much coffee...” Feuilly trailed off, his cheeks burning with shame when the full realization of how weak his excuses sounded to his own ears hit him. “I... I wouldn't be the partner you deserve.”

Jehan regarded him with raised eyebrows for a long moment. “Feuilly,” they said, slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how _done_ I am with inferiority complexes?”

Feuilly laughed nervously. “Um. Very?”

“Very.” Jehan leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Feuilly's cheek. “When you get over it, I'll be here.”

Feuilly hardly dared move for a minute, breathing a shaky breath of delicate perfume and cloying smoke as he resisted the urge to crush his lips to Jehan's slowly smiling ones, taste whatever it was that left his skin tingling where they'd touched; and then a raucous laugh rang out from further down the alley. Jehan's head whipped around in alarm, and the spell was broken.

Grantaire, still leaning against the wall, had been surrounded by three young men; one, the youngest-looking and by far the most well-dressed, was leaning close to him, smiling sweetly even as the threat in his low voice made itself heard down the alley to Jehan and Feuilly. Grantaire's face was impassive, but his hands at his sides were balled into fists. The other two stood back a little; one had his back to them, and they could plainly see the thick switchblade knife folded in his back pocket.

“Shit,” Jehan hissed.

“You know those guys?”

“Montparnasse, Babet, and Claquesous. They're fucking insane,” they muttered. The one closest to Grantaire took a step closer still, crowding him against the alley wall, and Jehan was up like a shot, their footsteps light as they hurried towards the group.

“... haven't seen her in far too long,” the handsome man with the dangerous voice was saying silkily. “Tell her I said hi, won't you? I'm sure she misses me.”

“Honey, please,” Jehan scoffed, slipping past Claquesous to stand beside Grantaire, turning to the trio with blazing eyes and a musical little laugh. “If Eponine ever, _ever_ saw you again, Montparnasse, it would be too soon.”

Montparnasse frowned for a moment, looking Jehan up and down with a sneer. “Well, fuck me, it's Jean Prouvaire. R, is this little faggot still following you around everywhere? He must be a good fuck.” Jehan paled as Montparnasse took a step towards them, Grantaire tensing by their side. “Bet you'd look just like a girl from behind, wouldn't you, bi-”

Jehan struck like a snake, driving their boot into Montparnasse's groin and delivering a swift upper-cut to his jaw when he doubled over, sending him reeling backwards and toppling onto the concrete, where he lay groaning like a dying man. Grantaire raised his fists as Babet and Claquesous started towards them, Claquesous reaching for the knife in his back pocket, but both froze when Jehan raised their bejeweled little aerosol can and pink switchblade.

“I hear bleeding out is relatively painless,” they mused, icy threat in every syllable. “I wonder if that's still true with a mouth full of mace.”

“Or I could just beat your skulls in.” The pair jumped and turned as one man to see Feuilly standing behind them, a piece of lead pipe in his fists. His teeth were bared in an uncharacteristically vicious snarl. “One chance, boys – take your mate and fuck off or I _will_ kill you.”

Babet and Claquesous may not have been the most cunning criminals in the game, but they were far from stupid – and they were exceptionally good at following orders. Claquesous glared daggers at Feuilly as he and Babet hauled the still-moaning Montparnasse to his feet, who spat a mouthful of blood at Jehan as soon as he was upright. 

“Watch your back, you filthy little tranny,” he hissed, and they took off down the alley into the dark when Grantaire lurched forward with a growl.

The three of them stood still for a minute, staring into the darkened street outside the alley where they'd disappeared, as though half expecting them to return, before Feuilly dropped his pipe with a clatter that made the other two jump.

“Jehan,” he breathed, taking a step towards them, his eyes wide and shining. “Jehan, that was fucking magnificent.”

Jehan let out a long, shaky breath, folding their knife and slipping both weapons back into their pocket. Grantaire put his arm around them. 

“You okay?” he murmured. Jehan nodded silently, leaning into him and smiling a fragile smile at Feuilly. 

“Can we go inside, please?” they asked no one in particular, their voice scarcely above a whisper. “I think we should be... out of the alley...”

“Of course. Jehan, you're trembling-” Feuilly moved to Jehan's other side, hesitating before he put his arm around them. “Can I-”

“Yes, please, for fuck's sake,” Jehan gasped – their face was growing paler by the second, their breathing heavy and laboured. “Please-”

Feuilly wrapped his arm around their waist and pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, steering the three of them towards a locked door next to the stairs leading up to the Musain. “This is the office. There's a couch, it's quiet -” he unlocked the door with ease and ushered them inside. “Jehan, lie down, okay? R's going to stay with you, I'm going to get some water – and Joly.” He closed the door gently, and Grantaire could hear him clattering his way up the stairs, shouting Joly's name, as he pushed some loose paperwork off the worn old couch and helped Jehan lay down.

“Sorry, s-sorry, sorry,” they were sobbing. “I c-can't-” 

“Shh, shhhh, sweetheart, you're okay,” Grantaire murmured, stroking their hair off their face and brushing away a tear with his thumb. “You were so brave, so incredibly fucking brave. It's all okay now.”

“I kn-know but I c-can't breathe,” they gasped, catching Grantaire's hand and clinging to it tightly. They jumped almost out of their skin when the door opened, but it was only Joly, closely followed by Feuilly, clutching a glass of water and looking almost as pale as Jehan themselves.

 

Joly and Jehan had that precious kind of friendship that was easily struck and effortlessly maintained – they were both so scatterbrained and had so many demands on their time, promises of coffee dates and phone calls were forgotten by both within an hour of being made, and yet they encountered each other in bars, at rallies, and at parties time and time again, arguing pharmaceuticals versus medicinal herbs and the pros and cons of recycled clothing with all the easy affection of siblings barely parted. It was a testament to Jehan's trust in the young doctor that they took the little Valium pill he pushed into their hand without question, washing it down with a gulp of water and a grateful little smile as Joly fought down the urge to scold all three of them. Instead, he said to Grantaire;

“They're not used to meds - they'll be asleep on their feet within half an hour. Call a taxi, take them back to your place and put them to bed, okay? They'll be totally fine by morning. And you-” he turned to Feuilly, who was worrying a thumbnail with his teeth. “You go with them. I don't want any of you being alone tonight. I'll make your excuses to Musichetta.”

“I wouldn't want to impose-” Feuilly started to say, but Grantaire cut him off.

“Fuck's sake, man, you're moving in in two days, it's practically your apartment too. Jehan always sleeps in my bed, you can have the couch.” 

Jehan smiled at his tone. Their breathing was starting to even out, now. “Bossy,” they murmured. 

Feuilly grinned affectionately down at them. “You're starting to look stoned, hippy.”

Jehan's smile widened, and then faded suddenly, replaced by a frown. “Feuilly?”

“Yeah?”

“Where the _fuck_ did you get that pipe?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU LIKE BOSSUET AND ENJ'S POETRY??? GOOD BECAUSE SO DID I WHEN I SAW IT PERFORMED LAST WEEK. I looked and looked for some online stuff of the guy that did the one that inspired Bossuet's - I know his name was Damian, that's all - but couldn't find anything. All I know is he performs around Melbourne and he's wonderful. The guy that did Enjolras's is named Joel McKerrow, and he's a pretty big name in the Australian slam poetry scene - you can find that poem here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y7I5kpKgktQ. Apparently this is now a Melbourne slam poets/Les Miserables crossover fic. I REGRET NOTHING.  
> But seriously can I just say to all my beautiful reader-friends, look up and see if any poetry slams happen in your local area. I cannot encourage you to get along to them enough. Spoken word is SO important. <3
> 
> Also I know I totally said that my Amis aren't necessarily Australian - I decided that that was a filthy lie ^-^ no but really I had been headcanoning Bossuet as Indigenous Australian the entire time, and I guess the longing for more Indigenous visibility won out against my vague intention to keep it ambiguous. His poem is a reference to the Stolen Generation. If you don't know what that is, do look it up - but have some tissues and a pillow to punch on standby because white people are monsters. 
> 
>  
> 
> THIS WAS THE LONGEST CHAPTER YET AND I REALLY POURED MY EVERYTHING INTO THIS BECAUSE I WON'T GET ANOTHER CHANCE TO WRITE MORE FOR TWO WEEKS
> 
> TWO WHOLE WEEKS - that's not two weeks till the next update, guys, that's two weeks till i can even START the next update, so I tried to make this chapter as big and full and exciting as I could to keep you all going!! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK AND ALSO WISH ME LUCK ON MY BIG HUGE WORK CONFERENCE NEXT WEEK BC I AM VERY NERVOUS <3 <3 <3


	13. "She and Montparnasse have a... history."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Feuilly have a heart to heart and Eponine loses her temper completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY FRIENDS, MY FRIENDS FORGIVE ME!!  
> Firstly this chapter is about HALF of what it was intended to be. You see, I've picked up a whole lot more responsibility at work along with an unusually active social life lately - it all happened very suddenly, and I have maybe an hour or two per week spare for writing now, whereas I used to be able to put in a couple of hours a day. I KNOW, IT'S AWFUL, AND IT'S MAKING ME REALLY DEPRESSED. So, I'm desperately sorry to do this to you (and at such a downer part of the story too!!) but after this chapter I'm putting this beast on hiatus until January, at which point work should slow down. I promise I'm not abandoning it, it just has to take a back seat for now in favor of me being financially stable >_

Joly was right – Jehan fell asleep in the taxi on the way to Grantaire's, and Grantaire and Feuilly could only just barely wake them up to walk them up the strairs, supported between the two of them. They hummed happily when Grantaire tucked them into his bed with a kiss on the forehead, their breathing slowed and evened by sleep before he even left the room.

Feuilly was on the couch when Grantaire came out, hugging his knees and chewing a thumbnail.

“They okay?” he asked immediately, his voice hushed.

Grantaire smiled at him and nodded. “Out like a light. Tea?”

“Please. Just black, for me.” Feuilly followed him into the kitchen, leaning against the bench in silence while Grantaire pottered around with mugs and teabags.

“Did the talk go well?” Grantaire asked eventually.

Feuilly considered for a moment. “Y-ye-es,” he answered slowly. “I mean, they kissed my cheek and told me they'd be there when I got over my inferiority complex, I think that's a good sign.”

Grantaire grinned. “Wow. They really like you.”

“Yeah?” Feuilly grinned back as Grantaire handed him a steaming mug.

“They were _pissed,”_ Grantaire murmured, shaking his head as he padded back out into the lounge, sinking into the couch, closely followed by Feuilly. “Not trying to give you hell, here, man, but you saw what they were like; it takes a bit to cut Jehan up that much, and it's one thing for them to forgive – it's another thing entirely to put their heart back on the line so soon.”

Feuilly paled. “I still don't know if I'm in the right place for a relationship.”

Grantaire sipped his tea. “Well, what is the right place?”

“I... I don't know,” Feuilly confessed. “Maybe when I have more time? When I'm not working six or seven days a week?”

“Maybe you should cut back your hours at the Shelter.”

“I couldn't.” Feuilly shook his head miserably. “They depend on me for so much, there. They need me.”

“And when are they going to _not_ need you?”

“Shit, I don't know,” Feuilly mumbled. “Not for a while, at least.”

“This whole self-sacrificing, give-everything-take-nothing, tireless saint thing you've got going on. How's that working out for you?” Grantaire smirked, putting his mug down and stretching.

“Come on, I'm hardly a saint-”

“Well, you are, dude, actually, in a lot of ways. But I'm serious; the way you're living now, tell me honestly, are you happy?”

Feuilly stared into his mug for a minute, before putting it down and burying his face in his hands, muffling his reply. “No.”

“Why?” Grantaire's voice was serious now. “Right here, right now, define what needs to change.”

Feuilly didn't reply for a long moment. “I want a fucking decent night's sleep,” he said at last, taking his hands away from his face to run through his hair. “I want a day off, like a whole damn day, not a morning or an evening or a day where I end up going in to the shelter anyway because something goes wrong and they call me. I want, like, a few days off so I can go camping. I want... I want to read more. And I want to spend time with Jehan.” He turned to Grantaire, his eyes almost pleading, as though Grantaire could grant his wish. “I really, really want to spend time with Jehan. I want to take them on a date or something, you know? But... ugh, it's probably for the best I don't have time. I'd be a rubbish boyfriend.” He let out a self-depreciating little laugh.

Grantaire frowned. “Why?”

Feuilly shrugged. “I've just... never really been in a serious relationship, so...”

“Surely it's better that way? You have no baggage, so to speak.”

“I also wouldn't know what the fuck to do.”

“Christ, it's dating, not rocket science.” Grantaire rolled his eyes.

Feuilly shot him a look, but anything he had to say was cut off by Grantaire's phone ringing loudly from his pocket. Grantaire jumped, pulling it out and squinting bemusedly at the screen for a moment before answering.

“Hey, Eponine?”

“R! Are you okay??” Feuilly could hear her clearly from the other end of the couch, her voice loud and shrill with worry. Grantaire winced and held the phone a little away from his ear.

“I'm fine, Ep, we're all okay,” he soothed.

“Where's Jehan?”

“Sleeping. Joly gave them a valium.”

“Why did Joly give them a fucking valium?!”

“Because they were having a panic attack, love, it's alright. Did anyone tell you what happened?”

“Nobody's told me _fuck. All,”_ she spat. “All I know is you three dickheads got in a fight and didn't call me.” Her tone grew vicious and Grantaire went a bit pale, twisting a hand nervously in his shirt.

“It's fine, 'Ponine. Jehan had their knife, Feuilly had a pipe, they fucked off. None of us got hurt.”

“Who was it?”

“I don't know,” Grantaire lied. “Just some scummy fuckers.”

“Grantaire who the _fuck_ was it?!” Eponine's voice rose again. “I know when you're fucking lying -” she broke off, and Grantaire heard snatches of a mumbled exchange before a new voice spoke.

“Hey, Grantaire?”

He swallowed hard, throwing a slightly terrified glance at Feuilly. “Hey, Apollo.”

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, all things considered.”

“And Jehan and Feuilly?”

“They're fine too.”

“Good.” He dropped his voice lower, barely audible over the music in the background. “Joly wouldn't tell us much, but he hinted that you knew the guys that attacked you. Is there anything we should know?”

Grantaire sighed. “Look, I do know them. Their names are Montparnasse, Claquesous and Babet but, Enjolras, if Eponine has to know who they were, make sure she's somewhere safe and there's someone to stay with her before she hears it. She and Montparnasse have a... history.”

“O-okay,” Enjolras said slowly. “Should I be concerned? Is this guy coming back?”

“Doubt it – I'm sure he has it out for me and Jehan, now, but he's mostly all talk. He wouldn't know where to find either of us.”

“Okay. Well, be careful.” Enjolras hesitated, then asked, “Do you need anything? Can I... can I help, somehow?”

Grantaire bit back a smile. “Have a beer for me.”

“Urgh, I hate beer.”

“Fine, have one of your fucking girly drinks, then-” Grantaire's hand flew to his mouth when he realized what he'd said. “I mean – shit, sorry-”

“I _will_ have one of my girly drinks,” Enjolras laughed. “And I'll fucking enjoy it, too, because my masculinity isn't so fragile that it's threatened by vodka-and-cranberry.”

Grantaire snorted. “Touche.”

“Hey, R?”

“Mm?”

“I'm really glad you're alright.”

Grantaire felt his face heat up. “Not going soft on me, are you, Apollo?”

“Shut up,” Enjolras replied, but there was a hint of fondness in his tone. “Get some sleep. I'll calm Eponine down.”

“Good luck with that.”

Grantaire hung up, still grinning, and caught Feuilly's knowing eye as he sipped his tea. He levelled a finger at him. “Shush, you.”

“I didn't say anything,” Feuilly protested, despite the grin spreading over his face.

“He was just making sure we're all okay. Because he's nice. He was being nice.”

“Oh, of course.” Feuilly winked, and Grantaire threw a half-hearted punch at his shoulder.

 

 

 

 

“Fuck you, you stupid condescending shitwasp, tell me who the fuck it was!!”

Everyone on the balcony had turned to stare at Eponine, who was shouting at Enjolras with her third cigarette in the space of ten minutes dangling from her fingers. Enjolras was growing red in the face even as he held his hands up placatingly, speaking with forced calm.

“'Ponine, I told you, I'll call you when you get home, this isn't the place-”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?!”

“Eponine, there is no need-” Combeferre began sternly, taking his place by Enjolras's side and placing a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Fuck you too, you pompous fuck!”

“Eponine, _please,”_ Bossuet called desperately from the table in the corner, his arm around Joly, who had grown very pale.

She fell silent for a moment, breathing hard and staring around at them all with defiance in her eyes. “I know who the fuck it was. You all must think I'm fucking stupid.”

“Get Marius,” Combeferre muttered to Courfeyrac, and the dark-haired man scuttled inside before Eponine could stop him.

“Go to hell,” Eponine spat at Combeferre.

“No, that's _enough,”_ he quipped. “We're trying to help. If you _need_ to know now, you're going to sit down somewhere quiet with Enjolras and Marius and talk about it. Alright?”

“Grantaire said to tell her when she's at home,” Enjolras protested a little desperately. “He wouldn't have said so if he didn't think it was important.”

Eponine laughed bitterly. “You two teaming up to try and run my life now? Adorable.”

“You are _impossible-”_ Enjolras burst out, and at the same moment, Courfeyrac burst back through the door, dragging Marius by the hand, who in turn was dragging Cosette. Eponine visibly softened at the sight of their worried faces.

“'Ponine, what's the matter?” Marius crossed the little balcony in two long strides to hug her fiercely. Cosette followed closely behind, putting her arms around both of them. After a moment, she relaxed into the group hug.

“These fuckers don't want me to know that it was Montparnasse who fucked with R, but it doesn't take a fucking genius.” Her voice was muffled by Marius's shoulder, but Enjolras still heard, and shifted uncomfortably.

“It wasn't that I didn't want you to know,” he muttered. “Fuck, I don't even know who this Montparnasse guy is. Just R said you should be at home before I told you. He's your friend, I thought he'd know best.”

“Montparnasse,” Marius echoed, pulling back from Eponine a little to look down into her face. “Isn't that your ex?”

“I think,” said Combeferre loudly, with a pointed look at those still watching curiously. “That this conversation needs to be had somewhere quieter.”

“Marius and I were just leaving,” Cosette piped up. “'Ponine, why don't you come with us? We'll get a taxi. Fuck walking.” She smiled encouragingly at Eponine.

“Jesus, that's all I need, a night of playing third wheel,” she muttered.

“You are _never_ third wheel with us,” Cosette exclaimed, horrified, hugging Eponine tighter.

“You're like, third leg of a tripod,” Marius suggested, and then blushed when Eponine raised her eyebrows at him. “I mean, erm. Yeah, lets go home. Please come, Ep?”

The three of them shuffled out, Eponine glancing back breifly at Enjolras and Combeferre when she reached the door. “Sorry for yelling,” she muttered, and then she was gone.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Courfeyrac exclaimed, as soon as she was out of earshot. “I don't think I've _ever_ seen her go off her cracker like that before.”

“I have,” Bahorel commented. “It's just that there's usually fists involved.”

“Who the fuck is Montparnasse?” Bossuet asked the room at large. Everyone shrugged, except Bahorel, who's face darkened.

“Nasty little piece of shit, he is,” he growled. “Fuckin' lucky I wasn't there. I've owed him a broken nose for about three years.”

“Why?” Enjolras asked.

“He was dating Eponine when I first met her. See, Grantaire found Eponine sleeping in bus shelters when she was seventeen, and at the time, he was living in this dump of a sharehouse with Montparnasse and two other pricks. And it really was a dump, it was like a converted warehouse that hadn't actually been converted properly. The plumbing hardly worked, there was no electricity, and they cooked with this little camp stove and slept on mattresses on the floor. But, in theory at least, it was better than bus shelters, so Eponine went to live with them.  
“'Ponine slept on the couch for about a week before Montparnasse decided he liked her and from then on she slept in his room. Grantaire was worried about her because he knew Montparnasse was a fuck, but he was also kind of working for him, so he couldn't really do anything about it. He started taking her to the gym and teaching her self-defense, just in case, which is where I met her. Anyway, apparently it didn't do shit. I don't know when it started, or how we noticed, but everyone knew he was smacking her 'round. We didn't talk about it, we just knew, and I think she knew we knew. It went on for ages, he got her hooked on weed and god knows what else, and eventually she stopped coming to the gym. And me and R couldn't do a thing, so we'd just whale on these punching bags out of frustration. I think R blamed himself, cuz he'd taken her in, you know?” He paused to take a drag on his cigarette. “Then something happened, I don't even know what, I'm pretty sure it involved Jehan somehow, but there was this big fuckin' blowout and Grantaire pretty much took Eponine and ran for it. They stayed with me for a week or two before they got an apartment – she kept wanting to go back to him, and I don't know how much was fear or love or just needing a hit of whatever nasty shit he'd been feeding her, but we managed to talk her out of it every time, somehow. Grantaire sold his car and found work as a boxing instructor, they got an apartment to share, and they've both been avoiding Montparnasse ever since.”

“I might be sick,” Joly squeaked, and dashed inside as Combeferre wrapped protective arms around Courfeyrac, kissing the top of his head.

Enjolras sat down heavily. “Would someone be kind enough to roll me a cigarette?” he asked, his voice very small.

Bahorel pulled out his tobacco pouch obligingly. “Fucked up, huh?”

“You said R worked for Montparnasse,” Bossuet frowned. “Doing what?”

Bahorel shrugged. “Don't know the details, but I think he was drug running.”

“Wha-a-at the fuck,” Courfeyrac moaned, burying his face in Combeferre's shoulder.

“Don't judge,” Bahorel told him sternly, casting a frown around the group before handing Enjolras the cigarette he'd rolled. “Grantaire had nothing when he moved up here, and I do mean _nothing._ He got a job as a cleaner in a shopping centre, and when he met Montparnasse – well, why would you stay in a job like that with the kind of money Montparnasse was offering? That money is the only reason he managed to get himself started as an artist, _and_ support Eponine while she found a job.”

“He's lucky not to have a criminal record,” Enjolras muttered, and Bahorel winced.

“Yeah, honestly, I think he must have been the luckiest bastard in the world, because he got harassed by cops often enough – it just happened to be always when he wasn't working, or after he'd made the drop. I think he might have had to do community service because he got caught graffiti-ing once, that was it. ”

“I'm... I'm gonna go check on Joly,” Bossuet muttered, looking rather shellshocked as he wandered inside.

Enjolras pulled out his phone. “I'm just going to tell Marius not to leave Eponine alone tonight, under any circumstances.”

 

Bahorel drove all five of them home soon after, Courfeyrac happily volunteering to lie across Joly, Bossuet and Combeferre's laps in the back seat to avoid being seen and then regretting his decision five minutes into the journey when Joly wouldn't stop nervously jiggling his leg and tapping his fingers against Courfeyrac's hip. Enjolras couldn't have been more grateful for the empty house when he was dropped off, his aunt away on a business trip and leaving the neat little terrace house still and peaceful. He sat under the shower spray until the hot water ran out, hugging his knees to his chest, lost in thought.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless you all for sticking with me so far, for all the love and support you've sent my way and for generally just being precious magical lil humans. Special thanks to anyone who's come and talked headcanons with me on tumblr (i LOVE talking about my Amis and it makes me really really happy so if you want to my tumblr is wardrobespierre)
> 
> (pls do it omg help me get through the next few months)


	14. There are many things that I would like to say to you, but I don't know how

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly's moving in party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOOOOOOOOOO GUYS DID YOU MISS ME? I SURE MISSED THE HECK OUT OF YOU!!   
> I know I said January, but mostly thanks to the encouragement of my dear friend Luke, here's a chapter! HAPPY FESTIVUS!!   
> I want to give a shout out to my angelbaby Rue and my fanboy buddy Tom who started reading during my hiatus and struggled valiantly through the feels, and a big heartfelt thankyou to Bellamy who beta'd this chapter for me and who has also been a huge source of encouragement and support. And of course a MASSIVE love to everyone who has been waiting patiently for me to get back on the proverbial horse, BLESS YOU GUYS <3
> 
> Anyway here's Wonderwall¬

Saturday morning saw Grantaire up early, baking vegan-and-gluten-free peanut-butter cookies and cleaning compulsively, The Smiths ringing far too loudly from the stereo for 7am to distract him from his nerves.

Feuilly was moving in today. He arrived at around 10am with Bahorel, the beat-up stationwagon packed full of cardboard boxes holding all his worldly possessions, a single mattress very illegally lashed to the car's roof. Joly and Bossuet arrived soon after, and the five of them set to work helping Feuilly unpack his belongings. The day passed productively, with a few exceptions; when Grantaire unearthed Feuilly's impressive comic book collection and they paused for over an hour to discuss how much of a bag of dicks Batman is, when Jehan arrived with homemade sushi rolls which they descended on enthusiastically, and when Bossuet managed to tip a box of books onto his head. Bahorel and Joly bundled him into the car and off to hospital to have the nasty gash left by a hardcover _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy stitched up, leaving the others to continue unpacking.

The evening rolled around and brought with it Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras, armed with a picnic basket of homemade bread, dips and salad, Bahorel returning from the hospital after taking Bossuet and Joly home to recover, and Marius and Cosette on either side of a sombre-looking Eponine. Bahorel unloaded the very last of Feuilly's possessions from his car; a worn old acoustic guitar. The redhead called the little party officially to order by taking it, settling on the couch next to Jehan and breaking into a slightly over-enthusiastic rendition of 'Wonderwall' while Courfeyrac and Grantaire handed out bottles of beer and cider.

“Hold up for one second,” Courfeyrac called at the end of the song, everyone freezing at his uncharacteristically serious tone. “'Ponine, Enjolras – you guys need to hug it out.”

Grantaire's eyes widened as both parties cast uncomfortable glances at each other. “What? What happened?”

Eponine huffed a sigh. “Do we have to talk about that? Look, I'm sorry I cracked the shits with you, Enjolras. And with you, Combeferre. Can we leave it now?”

“No, I'm sorry too,” Enjolras said gruffly. “I should have respected your right to know.”

“Great,” Courfeyrac exclaimed brightly as Eponine smiled gratefully at Enjolras. “Now we're all happy families again.”

“Come here, prettyboy,” Eponine offered, standing up and opening her arms for a hug. Enjolras grinned and got up to hug her, closely followed by Combeferre, who wrapped his long arms around them both as the group _aawwh_ 'ed.

“Does somebody want to tell me what the hell happened,” Grantaire hissed at Bahorel as Feuilly struck up a jaunty rhythm.

“Enjolras didn't want to tell 'Ponine it was Montparnasse,” Bahorel murmured back. “He was really stubborn about it, so 'Ponine lost her shit.”

Grantaire cursed quietly. “That was my fault.”

“I know.” Bahorel patted his shoulder reassuringly. “But I'd have done the same thing.”

Grantaire looked up at the three of them, distress tugging his eyebrows together, but they were swaying where they stood as Courfeyrac clapped in time to Feuilly's music and he and Jehan started to sing.

 

It was common for group situations involving both Bahorel and Eponine to turn into a proverbial pissing-contest of brawls won and lost, and common for the two to poke fun at the more peaceable members of the group. Tonight, Jehan and Feuilly were granted a respected immunity in light of recent events, but as Grantaire joined in the teasing enthusiastically it was Enjolras who bore the brunt.

“Not even at one of your protests? Never whacked a cop with a placard? Nothing? Call yourself a rebel,” Grantaire sniggered, earning himself a scowl from the blond.

“There is nothing to be gained by inciting pointless violence at demonstrations,” he replied loftily.

“Besides, R, have you seen his wrists?” Eponine crowed. “If he threw a punch, his fist would snap clean off!”

“Excuse me?!” Enjolras cried indignantly. “Eponine, you're a walking beanpole.”  
“What's your excuse then, prettyboy?” Bahorel challenged, grinning at Enjolras over the rim of his bottle.

“I don't need to justify not having been in a brawl,” he snapped. “Piss off.”

“Yeah, piss off, Bahorel,” Courfeyrac rejoined delightedly as several members of the circle let out gleeful _ooooh_ 's at the heat in Enjolras's voice. “Enj could fuck you up.”

“Yeah?” Bahorel chuckled, and jumped to his feet. “Come on then, Enj, fight me.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at Bahorel before his lips twitched in a grin, despite himself. “Alright.” He got to his feet quickly, raising his fists and assuming a pose obviously meant to look like boxers on television – but rather ridiculously exaggerated and wildly ineffective. Bahorel paused, raising a hand to his face with an expression of mildly distressed bemusement, as Eponine let out a raucous burst of laughter and Grantaire choked on his beer.

“Enjolras... do you have any idea how to fight?” Bahorel asked.

“Of course I don't,” Enjolras quipped, flushing slightly but stubbornly holding his comical stance.

“Mate, you have to let me teach you.”

Enjolras dropped his fists. “Is it that bad?”

“Yes,” Bahorel replied simply, and set about positioning Enjolras like a mannequin. “So, fists in front of your face. Protect yourself. Plant your feet, shoulder-width apart – no, that's too close, Enjolras, further – yeah, that's better. One in front of the other, just a bit. Stable? Right-” Bahorel shoved Enjolras's shoulder lightly, sending the blond wobbling and stumbling backwards. Grantaire snorted, earning a glare from Enjolras as he rightened himself. “No, no, dude, you're holding yourself too stiffly. Come on, knees bent a bit. Better. Right, now, say I'm going to punch you in the face, right - I'm not really, don't worry – you have to duck it and hit me where my guard is down. Ready? Don't be afraid to hurt me, okay?”

Watching Bahorel feint punches only to cuff Enjolras's curls while the blond ducked ineffectually, trying and failing to punch back, was like a pantomine in Grantaire's living room. Jehan was hanging over the arm of the couch, helpless with laughter, as Grantaire, Feuilly and Courfeyrac cheered Enjolras on and Eponine shouted advice. Enjolras grew redder and redder in the face until he let out a roar of frustration, put his head down and charged at Bahorel, only for the giant to step nimbly out of his path, catch the blond around the waist and lift him under his arm in one smooth movement, making Enjolras yelp with surprise and indignation.

“Fuck you, put me down!”

“Say 'please'.”

“No!” Enjolras wriggled and kicked, giggling despite himself, and then Bahorel reached over with his free hand to tickle Enjolras's sides. The blond _shrieked._ “Please! Please! I said please!”

Bahorel dumped him unceremoniously on a beanbag, grinning down at him as he sat up and tried to smooth down his hair. “You can't fight for shit.”

Enjolras flushed, indignation creeping back into his face now that the giggles had subsided. “It's not _my_ fault – you're _huge, and_ you're a crap teacher.”

“You wound me, Enjolras,” Bahorel reproached, mock offended, as he reached down to catch Enjolras's hand and pull him back onto his feet. “Fine. Grantaire, why don't you have a go?”

Grantaire blanched. “Oh – no, no, I'm a useless teacher-”

“Shut the fuck up, you used to make a living off teaching that shit,” Eponine cried from the other side of the room, frowning at Grantaire in outrage. “You taught _me.”_

“That's _different._ Come on, Enjolras doesn't want _me_ to teach him-”

“Yes I do.” Grantaire looked up in surprise to see Enjolras quirking a smile at him, lifting his chin slightly in a challenge. “You're shorter than me. I might actually have a chance.”

Grantaire let out a snort of laughter. “Is that right, Apollo?”

Courfeyrac put his hand in the small of Grantaire's back and shoved him off the couch and up into the centre of the room as Enjolras squared his shoulders and raised his fists, grinning.

“Fine, fine. Okay. First of all, Enjolras, if this was a real fight you'd be doing yourself no favors keeping your distance like that. You have no reflexes yet, you don't know how to throw a punch yet – all you're doing is giving them the space to hit you harder. Get in close.” He took a step closer to the blond, stubbornly ignoring the lurch in his stomach when Enjolras took a step closer at the same moment. “O-okay. You have to learn to fight dirty. It's easier to win fighting dirty than it is fighting clean, and sometimes winning means keeping that pretty face intact, so...” he smirked as Enjolras frowned, and lifted his finger to the blond's face, tapping the end of his nose. “Punch here -” he flicked the top of his ear where it poked through his curls - “Grab there, don't bite if you don't want hepatitis, and if you can be really quick – and I mean really quick, this is risky – grab their shoulders, hook your foot behind their knee-” Grantaire mimed the action - “and kick _back._ They'll go down fast and try to grab you, so keep your balance, you don't want to end up on the ground with them.”

Enjolras rolled his shoulders. “Can I try?”

“Sure.”

The blond grabbed Grantaire's shoulders and kicked his knee out with deftness that caught them both off-guard; Grantaire hit the carpet with an _oof_ of breath and found himself with a face full of curls when Enjolras came down hard on top of him. It took a moment to register that his forearms were bracketing Grantaire's head and his hair formed a pale golden curtain between both their faces and the outside world as he propped himself up slightly, staring at Grantaire in shock, their noses bare inches apart. Grantaire drew a breath of the cold, spicy perfume Enjolras always wore, and instantly both regretted it and barely restrained himself from burying his face into the crook of Enjolras's neck and inhaling again.

“Uhm.” Grantaire cleared his throat, digging his fingernails into the carpet in an effort not to do something stupid _like kiss you senseless, like throw my arms 'round you and refuse to let go._ “You okay?”

“Uhm,” Enjolras murmured, his voice a little dazed, and someone – probably Eponine – wolf-whistled.

Enjolras jumped like he'd been bitten, scrambling to his feet. “Sorry, sorry – I didn't balance – shit, did I hurt you?”

Grantaire snorted, hoping nobody noticed that his own blush must surely match Enjolras's as he took the hand the blond offered to help him up. “Not at all. Well done, we'll make a brawler out of you yet.”

“God, no,” he muttered, avoiding Grantaire's eye as he grinned self-consciously around the room. “I think that's enough for me.”

“No way, it was just getting interesting,” Eponine crowed.

“Oh leave him alone,” Jehan scolded. “He's a lover, not a fighter.”

Courfeyrac choked on his drink and Combeferre let out an uncharacteristic snort of laughter while the rest of the room turned to raise their eyebrows at Jehan. Enjolras grimaced. “I've never been told that before.”

“I'm getting a beer,” Grantaire muttered, slipping off to the kitchen as Jehan launched into a long speech about how Enjolras's fight for equality consitutes an act of love. He let out a long breath as soon as he was out of sight of his friends and leaned his head against the fridge door with a little _thump._ Heat had been prickling under his skin since Enjolras had fallen on him, and he was just willing away the uncomfortable tension in his jeans when a polite cough from the doorway made him start.

Enjolras was leaning on the doorframe, watching Grantaire with undisguised concern. “Are you alright?”

Grantaire straightened up and tugged the fridge door open, shooting Enjolras a somewhat forced smile. “Fine, Apollo, just peachy.”

Enjolras wandered over to lean on the bench next to the fridge, eyeing Grantaire critically as he picked out a bottle. “You've already had three beers.”

“So?” Grantaire frowned at him. “I'm not even _close_ to drunk.”

“Why do you need to be?” he asked, with surprising gentleness. Grantaire's frown deepened, staring down Enjolras until the blond sighed. “Jehan mentioned you're... cutting back.”

“Did they now?”

“I think it's great.” He raised his eyes to Grantaire again, and he looked so sincere that for a single awful moment Grantaire had the overwhelming urge to both cry and shove him. “Don't give up.”

It took Grantaire a second to bite back the stream of belligerence clamoring to the tip of his tongue, the defiant _mind your own fucking business_ quip that had become his automatic reaction to anyone critical of his drinking habits very nearly slipping out. But a corner of Enjolras's delicate lips twitched up in an encouraging little smile and all the fire left Grantaire in a rush; he looked so sweet and so earnest, just for a minute. A genuine smile rose to Grantaire's face in return as he replaced the beer bottle. “Alright, Apollo.” He reached, instead, for the huge bottle of raspberry soft drink he'd hidden in the bottom shelf. “If you're not going to let me have a beer, you at least have to let me make ice-cream sodas.”

He'd swear, later, that the look on Enjolras's face - the way his eyes lit up like fireworks and his face split into a grin so honestly delighted Grantaire had never seen the like on anyone over the age of six – had sent his head spinning and spirits soaring the way that no drink on earth could ever hope to match.

 

“Marius! Truth or dare?”

Marius eyed Courfeyrac nervously across the room. It wasn't quite clear who exactly had started the game; Jehan had made a comment about how much easier life would be if everyone just told the truth all the time, and Feuilly had heartily agreed. Grantaire, who had been trying hard not to openly watch Enjolras sipping away at his soda with a look of childlike bliss on his face, suggested airily that everyone should be made to play a lifetime game of truth or dare – so that if one really _couldn't_ tell the truth one could escape the shame of dishonesty by drinking a jarful of pickle brine or something equally idiotic. And then Eponine had snorted and commented that pickle brine was a step up from some of the awful shit she'd seen Grantaire put away, and Grantaire had turned on her, demanding that _she_ drink pickle brine then, unless she had a little secret to share with the group?

“Don't be disgusting,” she'd moaned, wrinkling her nose. “I'll puke, and I'll puke on _you.”_

“Truth, then.”

“Fine.”

“Eponine, is there anyone in this room that you would shag senseless?”

Eponine had narrowed her eyes at him. “Any _one?”_

“Any _one.”_ At this point, Jehan had hidden a smile behind their hand – Grantaire had asked the obvious question, and they couldn't miss the tiny, apprehensive glance Cosette and Marius had shared while everyone else leaned forward eagerly, but he'd also given her an out, an out that she hadn't missed and clearly appreciated by the look of the sly smile spreading over her lips.

“No,” she said slowly. “Not any _one._ ”

“Does that mean _more_ than one?” Courfeyrac had asked eagerly.

“Uh-uh, no way kiddo, I did my 'truth'. Ask someone else.”

And Courfeyrac had turned to Marius, who was now looking increasingly apprehensive as he slowly answered “Da-a-re.”

Courfeyrac's face split in a wide grin. “ _Well,_ it just so _happens_ that I still have a certain notebook...” He reached into his bag as the group leaned forward eagerly and Marius spluttered and blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Oh no-”

“I dare you, Marius Engelbert Pontmercy-”

“That's not my-”

“- _ Engelbert Pontmercy,  _ to read  _ aloud  _ the poem on page twenty-five, entitled 'Though she be but small, she is fierce'.”

Marius groaned as he took the notebook from Courfeyrac. “I fucking hate you.”

“What's the problem?” Cosette asked. “Did you write it?”

“Yeah.”

“You've read your poems aloud a million times, babe.”

“Not... not this one.” Marius scrubbed a hand over his face and looked around at the group with a slight air of desperation. “Guys, guys – don't... don't judge me, okay. Especially you, 'Ponine.”

Eponine looked up at him in surprise. “What? Why me?”

“It's... look, I was in a really dorky phase when I wrote it, okay-”

“ _ Was, _ ” Courfeyrac sniggered. 

“- You can shut all the way up,” Marius quipped, levelling a finger at him. “I'm never going to fucking live this down.”

“Just read it, come on,” Grantaire called, grinning all over his face.

Marius groaned once more before opening his notebook, his face almost impossibly red now, and began to read.

“ _We drink summer out of jam-jars_

_While the wind howls outside_

_and she laughs like spring mischief,_

_and her eyes flash defiant pride_

_against the winter chill;_

_She has trekked the arctic barefoot,_

_And has warmth to spare, still_

_For a friendless fool like me._

_Through dank and dirty alleys,_

“ _Run, Marius,” says she;_

_Hand-in-hand we dance through hailstones_

_ All breathless joie de vivre _

_'Till we reach our dear Saint Joan._

_Her cheeks are flushed like fever_

_Like fire under fingertips_

_Yet still she'd laugh and tease-_

_The words are on my very lips;_

_Ill-gotten fireworks on a lonely eve_

_Is what you are to me, Eponine-_

_You burst across my barren sky_

_Like a wish, like a hope, like a dream._

_I never said, and I never knew why.”_

He looked sheepishly over his book at Eponine, who's mouth was hanging open. “Um. Yeah. You were the first friend I made here, and you were the reason I started writing poetry, actually, you brought so much inspiration and happiness into my life and I wanted to express it. The problem was, especially then; I was pretty terrible.” He grinned self-deprecatingly.

“I thought it was beautiful, Marius,” Jehan exclaimed. “So beautiful. You okay, 'Ponine?”

Eponine had hidden her face in her hands. “I'm – I'll be right back,” she said, her voice strangled, and she scrambled to her feet and rushed out of the room. Marius flinched at the sound of the bathroom door slamming.

“Oh, fuck,” Courfeyrac murmured, horror descending on his face. “I – shit. I'm so sorry.”

“Damn it, Courfeyrac, I've offended her now,” Marius moaned, flopping limply over Cosette's lap.

“I don't think you  _ offended _ her, baby,” Cosette murmured comfortingly, stroking his hair before she glanced up, her eyes round with concern. “Did he?”

Combeferre put his arm around Courfeyrac, who had started to worry his thumbnail with his teeth. “She might just be overwhelmed.”

“Marius, is that the first time you've said anything like that to her?” Grantaire asked suddenly.

Marius raised his head. “I've told her she's my best friend, but... I don't think I've ever told her what a huge difference she's made in my life. I thought she surely must have known, though.”

“She didn't.” Grantaire gave him an encouraging little smile. “She's not offended, believe me – she's trying to put her poker-face back on. Why don't you get in there and give her a hug, you smooth criminal you.”

“She probably wants space,” Marius hesitated, but Cosette gave him a nudge.

“Go on, baby boy.”

“Someone should definitely go and make sure she's alright, and that someone should probably be you, Marius,” Bahorel agreed, though his own eyes kept drifting towards the hall as if he wanted to follow her himself.

Marius set his chin determinedly and stood. “Okay. Okay, I'm going.”

 

 

Eponine huddled on the cold tiles, her face buried in a towel to muffle her sobs when the little knock on the door made her start.

“'Ponine? It's Marius.” His voice was tentative. “Can I come in?”

She scrubbed the towel over her face, wiping away any traces of tears. “Yeah.” She smiled a watery smile when he opened the door slowly. “Hey, dork.”

“Hey.” He smiled back uncertainly. “Are you... are you crying?”

“Shut up,” she sniffed, and let out a self-depreciating little laugh. “Are you coming in or what?”

Marius closed the door behind him and settled onto the tiles in front of her, resting his hands on her knees. “Did I upset you?” he asked seriously.

“Dude,” she chuckled. “You think you can just spring that emotional shit on a girl and expect her not to get teary? As if.”

He reached up to stroke a thumb along her cheekbone, brushing away a stray tear that had spilled over. “I've never seen you cry before.”

“That's because I'm an ugly crier. Can't let you see me like that,” she teased half-heartedly.

Marius didn't laugh. “I don't think you're an ugly crier.” His hand stayed cupping her face. Eponine's smile faltered.

“Stop... stop looking at me.”

“Why?”

She hid her face in the towel again and didn't reply.

“Hey...” he stroked his hand through her hair. “I'm sorry I never told you before. How important you are to me, I mean.”

She raised her head and smirked at him bitterly. “Maybe it's good that you didn't. Can't have me getting the wrong idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh my god, you are such a goddamn fool sometimes,” she sighed, half to herself.

“Okay, I'm sure I probably deserve that,” he laughed. “But help me out here – what makes me a fool in this particular situation?”

“Everyone else knows it but you,” she murmured. “I... I quite like you. As in... I might have an enormous crush on you.” She looked down at her knees, avoiding his eyes as his hand stilled in her hair. “In the interest of full disclosure, I mean. I don't expect anything. You and Cosette are a great couple, I'm really happy for you,” she added, sincerely.

“ _Really?”_

“Yes – I mean, okay, I was horribly jealous at first, but you were right, she's _perfect,_ and-”

“No, not that – I mean, I am glad you're not jealous any more, but – you have a crush on me?”

Eponine looked up. Marius's eyes were wide and delighted, a small smile playing on his lips as colour bloomed across his cheeks. “Wh-why do you look so happy?”

“Because I – we – oh fuck, words -”

“Spit it out, tiger,” she snorted. He shook his head, growing redder by the second, and she continued. “Look, it's no big deal – I mean I have like, this weird simultaneous crush on you _and_ Cosette and I'm just happy that you two are happy, I would never want you to break up – are you okay, man?” she asked, slightly alarmed as Marius made an odd choking noise and snatched her towel to press it to his own face. “Sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out-”

“Eponine, Eponine -” Marius threw the towel aside and took her face in both his hands, staring at her intently as her eyes widened. “You didn't freak me out. I swear, you could never, ever freak me out.” He lurched forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead before pulling her into his arms. She relaxed into his fierce embrace with a sigh.

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Marius -” Eponine pulled back suddenly, gazing seriously at him. “If you tell Cosette, I will kick your ass.”

Marius pouted. “But-”

“No buts, fuckboy. We've been friends two and a half years. Do. Not. Tell. Her.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well its been a crazy couple of months my friends - I've missed writing like hell, but I'm nearly through the work madness and I have some excellent news; my first appointment with the gender clinic has been set for February!! I'm hoping that you can all expect bi-weekly updates again from about now ish, but I can't make promises at this stage because I don't know what my January workload is going to look like. Hope you guys are all having a sparkling holiday season!! <3


	15. "To changes!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly's moving-in bash continues, and so do the dynamic shifts ^-^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Thanks again for putting up with my erratic updates, I love you all :3  
> Shout out to Rue, Dean and Bellamy for their conjoined beta and encouragement efforts. I fucking love you guys so much for real <3 <3 <3
> 
> The song referenced is 'Too Many Friends' by Placebo. I fuckin love Placebo. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for alcoholism references, abusive parent bullshit, and transphobia.

 

Jehan hugged their legs and peered at Enjolras over their kneecaps. “Enjolras,” they said carefully, a slow smile spreading across their face. “I dare you to sing.”

“What?! I can't sing,” Enjolras protested, laughing nervously.

“Rubbish,” Combeferre exclaimed. “Remember in your first year, when you got a high distinction for your Robespierre essay? And you got plastered on three glasses of wine and started singing Chant du Départ in perfect French?” 

“You sang _what?”_ Grantaire burst out laughing as Enjolras groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“And last week when you stayed over at ours, you were singing Placebo in the shower,” Courfeyrac chimed in. “And it sounded better than the original.”

“Shut up,” the blond begged, the sound muffled by his palms. “I can't sing _well._ ”

“Li-i-a-ar-r,” Courfeyrac droned. Enjolras raised his head and glared at he and Combeferre.

“You're both filthy traitors.”

“What Placebo song?” Feuilly asked. Enjolras shook his head.

“It was the one that goes like, _my computer thinks I'm ga-a-y,_ ” Courfeyrac sang, deliberately off-key. “ _Because I googled Beyonce-”_

“Jesus christ, shut him up,” Enjolras howled as Bahorel and Grantaire roared with laughter.

“I'll shut up if you sing!!”

“I know that song, you know,” Feuilly piped up. “I can play it.” He raised his eyebrows at Enjolras. “I can play, you can sing.”

Enjolras threw one last appealing glance at Combeferre and Jehan. “I'm not any good, really, it'll be embarrassing...”

“Ple-e-a-ase,” Jehan whined, at the same time as Combeferre murmured, “No one is making you if you really don't want to, dear. You could always do truth instead.”

Grantaire was torn. On the one hand, he desperately, _desperately_ wanted to hear Enjolras sing, now that he knew it was a thing that happened. If he was bad, it would probably be adorable and serve to make Enjolras less intimidatingly flawless and more, well, real. On the other hand, if he was good, Grantaire may just have to hurl himself into the sun.

_Oh well,_ he thought.  _I'm already this far gone._

He gave Enjolras a gentle nudge. “If you sing, I'll wear a fake black eye for a week and tell everyone that you gave it to me,” he coaxed.

Enjolras turned to him, horrified. “Why on earth would I want anyone to think I gave you a black eye?!”

Grantaire shrugged. “So everyone will be scared of you and you won't have to put your mad fighting skills to the test?”

Enjolras raised a single eyebrow. “How about I sing if you promise _not_ to do that?”

“Works for me,” Grantaire grinned. “Go on then.”

Enjolras turned to Feuilly, who smiled encouragingly. “Want me to sing with you?”

The blond nodded gratefully, and cleared his throat when Feuilly started to pick out the notes.

His voice was thin and reedy with nervousness at first, though hardly overwhelmed by Feuilly's, who sang softer, an octave lower, a sort of gentle encouragement rather than any sort of duet.

“ _I threw that peice of junk a_ _way on the_ _Champs-Élysées_ _as I was walking home...”_

Grantaire didn't miss the way Enjolras's voice became firmer, ever so slightly, as he pronounced the French.  _ Fucking Francophile,  _ he thought fondly, before Enjolras's eyelash's fluttered and he began to sing in earnest.

“ _...too many people that I'll never meet and I'll never be there for...”_

Jehan slowly unfolded their legs, staring at Enjolras with an enraptured little smile spreading across their face, and Combeferre leaned back against the couch with his eyes closed as Coufeyrac grinned proudly at his friend. Cosette, who had sat silent throughout this whole exchange, suddenly whipped out her phone at lightning speed and pointed the camera at Enjolras and Feuilly, while Bahorel muttered 'fuck' under his breath in a tiny, awed voice Grantaire had never heard him use before. Grantaire himself sat frozen. Enjolras's voice rang clear and bright as a bell, raising goosebumps on his skin and an ache deep in his chest.

“ _...the applications are to blame for all my sorrow and my pain, and feeling so alone...”_

Marius burst out of the hallway, skidding on the carpet and joining in with Enjolras enthusiastically, if slightly off-key. “ _I've got too many friends, too many people-”_

“ _That I'll never meet, and I'll never be there for.”_ Enjolras looked up at him with a grin as Eponine shuffled into the room, murmuring the lyrics under her breath – and all at once, Feuilly's voice had risen, Jehan was slipping in the kind of harmonies that send shivers down spines, and Grantaire found himself joining in the last few lines; though he was sure he'd never heard the song before and would probably never be able to listen to the original version.

It just wouldn't be the same without Enjolras's lips trembling ever-so-slightly around the drawn-out notes and the air of quiet reverence that had filled his tiny, ill-kept living room.

 

The game of truth or dare somehow lost it's thrill soon after that, and when Bahorel figured out how to connect his ipod to Grantaire's stereo and Lady Gaga's lusty tones belted through the apartment Courfeyrac lost no time moving the coffee table aside and dragging everyone to their feet for a dance. Grantaire immediately grabbed Eponine and swept her into a twirl on the edge of the group before tugging her close.

“Are you alright?” he murmured in her ear. She actually _giggled._

“Never better. I finally told Marius I like him.”

“ _And?”_

“And I feel about ten pounds lighter.”

“But what did he _say?”_

Eponine shrugged. “Not much – he went very red and made a weird noise. It's cool, he promised not to tell Cosette, so everything is fine.”

“Hmm.” Over Eponine's shoulder, he could see Cosette talking intently to Marius, and her lanky boyfriend shaking his head with a perplexed expression as he glanced towards Eponine. “Is that the best promise to have him make?”

“I wouldn't want Cosette to think I'm making a move.”

Grantaire sighed. “Isn't it better just to put the truth out there and let people deal with it whichever way they want?”

Eponine drew back and frowned. “You _massive_ hypocrite. I see your great bedsheet masterpiece has been taken down.”

“Shut up, you.”

“Whatever, punk,” she chuckled, following him into a few swing dance steps with surprising grace, considering she was wearing combat boots.

Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire saw Enjolras jump and pull his phone out of his pocket, saw him look up at Feuilly with panic in his eyes and exchange muttered words before Feuilly pointed him in the direction of his new bedroom and Enjolras nodded and slipped away. He kept dancing, spinning Eponine once, twice more before Cosette caught her hand and Grantaire suddenly found himself with an armful of grinning, two-left-feet Marius.

“R!”

“Marius!” Grantaire steered the lanky young man into some semblance of a salsa.

“Does Eponine like flowers?”

Grantaire frowned. “She'd probably prefer new boxing gloves. Why?”

Marius's grin took on an impish quality. “No reason.”

He squawked in surprise when Grantaire dipped him almost to the ground. “I'd do the customary 'hurt her and I'll kill you' speech, but I'm pretty sure she'd kill you herself,” Grantaire told him conversationally before pulling him back to his feet.

Marius nodded, still clinging to Grantaire's shoulders for support. “True.” He glanced over his shoulder at Eponine, who was blushing furiously while dancing with Cosette, her hands on the blonde's hips.

“Pontmercy, I'm going to be honest with you; I need to find Enjolras, and you need to be dancing with those ladies.”

Marius turned back to him, raising his eyebrows. “Why do you need to find Enjolras?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You may as well know, you've bared your soul enough tonight to deserve it; I like him a lot, and he just left the room looking stressed.”

Marius grimaced. “It's probably family stuff. Whenever he leaves the room looking stressed, it's usually family stuff.”

“Would it help if I checked on him?”

Marius shrugged. “Probably. Combeferre or Courfeyrac usually do.”

“Should I tell them to go after him?”

“Why don't _you_ get out there and give him a hug,” Marius grinned, with a large and obvious wink. “You smooth criminal.”

Grantaire snorted. “Well played.” He grabbed Marius's shoulders and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. “Wish me luck!”

“Break a leg!” Marius called after him as he slipped away through Feuilly's room, to the window leading onto the fire escape.

His hopeful mood faded ubruptly when he saw the expression of the blond standing on the other side, a look of despair sitting uncomfortably on his noble features as he clutched his phone to his ear, his shoulders slumped as though carrying the weight of the world.

“Mum, please, you know I can't come home... Please don't call me that.” As Grantaire watched, Enjolras drew the back of his fist brusquely across his eyes before gripping the railing. His knuckles glowed white in the light from Feuilly's bedroom. “No, Mum, it's not my name. Mum, listen – you've had too much to drink, you need-” He shut his mouth with a snap and winced, holding the phone a little away from his ear as the woman on the other end began to shout, shrill and jarring to even Grantaire's ears from where he stood inside. Enjolras waited, his pretty mouth twisting with growing disgust. Scraps of barely coherent ranting floated through the open window to Grantaire, each word caught filling his heart with a weight like lead.

“...fuck have you done, you've _mutilated_... never going to be my son, I don't have a son... took my daughter away... the _shame_ you brought... hope you're satisfied... could have had _everything..._ just a _freak show...”_

Grantaire couldn't listen any more. He climbed through the window, meeting Enjolras's eyes unflinchingly when the blond started and frowned at him with eyes red and glittering. “Enjolras.”

Enjolras turned the mouthpeice away from his lips as his mother continued to screech. “What do you want, R?”

“I want you to hang up the phone,” Grantaire told him gently. “You don't need to listen to that.”

Enjolras shook his head. “You don't understand.”

Grantaire took a step closer to him. “Tell me to go away, and I swear I will.”

Enjolras clenched his jaw, but said nothing. Grantaire stepped closer still, tentatively putting his hand over Enjolras's where it was clenched on the railing. Enjolras hesitated, and then caught Grantaire's hand and gripped it tightly.

“Mum? I have to go,” Enjolras said firmly into the phone over the continueing tirade, his voice refusing to betray the tremble in his lips. “Goodbye.” And he hung up.

Grantaire stood still and silent while Enjolras slipped the phone back in his pocket, blinking hard as though he could dispel the unshed tears with sheer force of will. He turned to Grantaire. “How long were you listening?”

Grantaire looked down at his hand, intertwined with Enjolras's. “Not long – no, too long. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” Enjolras's voice finally started to crack, and Grantaire looked up in alarm as he scrubbed his free hand over his eyes again. “My mum... she only talks to me when she's drunk, and it's usually like that.”

Grantaire nodded, and opened his arm, slightly awkwardly. “Do you... would a hug help?”

Enjolras sniffed and looked hard at Grantaire for a moment, as if sizing him up. Then; “Yeah,” he muttered, and leaned into Grantaire's embrace, winding his arms around the shorter man's shoulders as Grantaire wrapped his own tightly around Enjolras's waist.

“You're not a freak show,” he mumbed, his hold on Enjolras growing firmer still when the blond relaxed against him with a little sigh. “Anyone in their right mind would be so, so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras mumbled, his breath stirring the curls next to Grantaire's ear and sending a little shiver down his spine, followed immediately by a sickening rush of self-loathing. _He's upset, you fucking creep. Don't think about his voice in your ear. Don't think about how small his waist is. Don't think about how fucking good he smells. Don't-_

Enjolras turned his head and pressed a little kiss to Grantaire's hair before pulling away, smiling a little even as he wiped a stray tear from his cheek. “Hey... don't tell anyone about that, will you? I promised Combeferre I wouldn't answer calls from my mother late at night any more.”

Grantaire nodded. “Of course. But... why did you?”

Enjolras shrugged, leaning on the railing as he looked up at the night sky. “I suppose, I still have this naive little hope that one of these days she'll be calling to say she's sorry.” When Grantaire said nothing, Enjolras continued. “It's silly, I know. But I see other guys with really great relationships with their mums, and... Like, Courfeyrac's mum didn't speak to him for months after he came out, but then she got over it, and last summer she came over from Sri Lanka and stayed with him and 'Ferre for a month and they had such a great time, and now they skype every week. I guess seeing that gives me hope.” He turned to Grantaire, frowning slightly. “Jehan said your mum... is no longer with us.”

Grantaire's lips twisted. “Yeah. She died years ago.”

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras said honestly. “It must hurt.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire pulled his tobacco pouch out of his pocket. After a moment's silence, he looked up with a wry little smile. “She'd have liked you.”

Enjolras smiled back. “Really?”

“She liked... fiery people.”

Enjolras smiled gratefully as Grantaire handed him the cigarette he'd just rolled. “Was she? Fiery, I mean?”

Grantaire's smile slipped. “She... used to be. When I was little.” Enjolras was silent, obviously waiting for him to elaborate, but Grantaire shook his head. “Anyway. I think Combeferre's right, about not answering calls from your mum at weird times when she's probably drunk.”

Enjolras snorted. “That's all very well in theory, but last month I answered a call from her at ten in the morning and she was drunk.”

Grantaire frowned. “How often is she drunk?”

“Can't say for sure,” Enjolras shrugged. “Assuming she doesn't call me _every_ time. But... a few times a week, lately. It's become worse in the past few months.”

“Is your dad... not around?”

The blond laughed bitterly. “It's not like he pays Mum a scrap of attention when he _is._ Fuck, he never payed _me_ any attention unless I was arguing with him. He flat-out ignores my existance now that I'm a full-time abomination.”

“Don't say that,” Grantaire complained, lighting his own cigarette. “You're not.”

“I know, R,” Enjolras smirked. “It was a hilarious joke. Ha-ha.”

Grantaire snorted. “Never took you for a comedian, Apollo.”

“That's because I'm not,” he replied flatly. “As just demonstrated.”

Grantaire grinned, leaning on the railing beside him and blowing a stream of smoke into the night air. “So, you live alone?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Pretty much. I live with my aunt, but she's barely ever home.”

“Why not?”

“Because she's a highly published, highly regarded anthropologist and she travels everywhere giving lectures and doing studies. She literally lives out of a suitcase.”

Grantaire hummed. “That's pretty fuckin cool. Must be lonely, though.”

Enjolras shrugged. “I'm almost constantly round at Courf and 'Ferre's, but... yeah. Sometimes it's hard coming home to an empty house.”

Grantaire nodded. “I do know that feeling.”

“But-” Enjolras turned to him with a smile. “ _You_ have a brand new housemate, _and_ my aunt is coming home at the end of the month to work on her new book.”

“Shall we throw her a party too?” Grantaire smirked, and Enjolras snorted.

“She'd probably love that. She rolls the biggest spliffs you've ever seen.”

Grantaire laughed out loud at that. “Oh, Enjolras, I very much doubt it, but I'd be happy to be proved wrong.” The blond chuckled, and after a moments pause leaned slightly against his shoulder.

“You know something, Grantaire?”

“What's that?”

“You're actually pretty cool when you're not pissing me off.”

Grantaire chuckled. “High praise.” It took a few moments of screwing all his courage to the sticking point, but he draped his arm around the blond, forcing himself to relax and not hold him fast to his side. “You're pretty cool when you're not ripping me to shreds.” He hesitated, then added, “That's a lie, you're cool even when you _are_ ripping me to shreds because I pretty much always deserve it, but it's nice not having you yell at me.”

“It's nice not having to yell at you.”

“Fair play.”

The two shared a companionable silence, watching the cigarette smoke drift upwards and disperse in the night air as echoes of trashy pop music and shouts of delight echoed back to them through the window.

“Well,” murmured Enjolras at last, stubbing his butt out on the railing. “I suppose we should go and join in.”

“I suppose,” Grantaire agreed, ignoring the twinge of regret and flicking his own butt into the old jam jar that served as an ashtray before following Enjolras back through the window.

 

He was entirely unsurprised to see Jehan fully engaged in a dance-off with Eponine to a song he hadn't heard since junior high school, with Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Marius and Cosette cheering them on loudly. Feuilly was on the couch, somehow apparently maintaining a deep conversation with Combeferre while never taking his eyes off Jehan. It wasn't hard to see why; Jehan was wearing the jeans they had had Grantaire paint roses on back in the tenth grade, and though the paint had barely faded, the denim clung like a second skin, worn ragged at the knees and torn just under their left arse cheek from when they climbed over the fence of the botanic gardens two years ago. They'd abandoned their sweater and their pale abdomen flexed and rolled under the hem of the tie-dyed crop top they'd acquired at a music festival last summer, traded for a pot of body glitter with a stoned young woman who'd rather be topless anyway.

“God, what a tart,” Grantaire snorted when they dropped to the floor, back arching like a cat's as they re-ascended and Courfeyrac whistled loudly.

Enjolras whipped around and glared at him. “Slut-shaming isn't okay.”

Grantaire burst out laughing at that. “The day that Jehan is actually _shamed_ by me calling them a tart, please feel free to dish out that black eye, Apollo.”

“Knowing Jehan, they'd probably dish it out themself,” Enjolras conceded, frown softening – and then his jaw dropped almost to the floor when a particularly exuberant move from Eponine ended in a perfect split. “Jesus _fuck-”_

“Eat it, motherfucker!” she yelled at Jehan over the cheering when they threw their hands up in mock despair.

Jehan flounced off dramatically to the kitchen, and after a moment, Feuilly followed.

 

Jehan didn't hear the footsteps trailing after them over the rhythmic thump of the stereo as they made a beeline for the sink and splashed cold water over their face and down their neck. They jumped almost out of their skin when they turned to see Feuilly standing by the fridge, watching them hungrily.

“I'm so sorry,” he exclaimed, when Jehan gripped the bench behind them for stability and pressed a hand to their racing heart. “I didn't mean to scare you. I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay,” Jehan reassured him, laughing nervously. “I wasn't paying attention.”

Feuilly grinned, and then opened the fridge. “Beer?”

“Please.”

Feuilly moved closer, popping the top of both bottles with a keyring and handing one to Jehan. “Cheers.”

He was standing close, now, just slightly too close to be strictly friendly, just close enough that Jehan could smell the hint of coffee, tobacco and sandalwood that clung to Feuilly's skin. Jehan pushed off the bench and took a step into his space, taking the bottle and clinking it against the one he still held. “Cheers.” They watched Feuilly's eyes track the movement of their throat as they took a swig.

“Jehan...”

“Mm-hm?” Jehan put their head on one side, biting down on a smile when they saw a flush rise to Feuilly's cheeks.

“You're... you're so fucking beautiful.” He raised his hand to brush a stray droplet of water from Jehan's chin, and let his fingertips wander, tracing the line of Jehan's jaw. Their smile faded, softening their expression to something somehow blissful, vulnerable and a little unsure, all at once. Feuilly slid his hand into their hair, tangling his fingers in the smooth locks. “I've been thinking.”

“Oh, yes?” Jehan purred, arching their neck into his touch when his fingernails scraped gently over their scalp. “What about?”

“About you. About my life. About how much better my life would be with more _you_ in it.”

“Mmm, keep talking,” Jehan murmured.

“Jehan,” Feuilly breathed, setting his beer down on the bench before winding his arm around their waist. “I'm... I'm fucking crazy about you, kid. The way you speak, the way you dance, your smile, your eyes – gods, you look at me and I can't breathe, and yet I've never been more alive.”

“Fe-ui-lly,” Jehan sighed, drawing out each syllable as though savoring the taste on their tongue. They hooked their fingers through the belt loops on his jeans, tugging him closer, until their faces were scant inches apart. “I think... you're drunk.”

“I haven't been drunk on four beers since I was fourteen years old, love, and I'm certainly not drunk now.” He smiled wryly.Jehan's eyes were bright and glittering under the smudges of kohl lining their eyelids; they reminded Feuilly of the fresh, tender new foliage that bursts from the trunks of blackened trees after a forest fire. They filled him with the same sense of awe, the same dizzying hope. “Not drunk, just... feeling braver than usual, I guess.”

Jehan brushed the tip of their nose against his. “So just how brave _are_ you feeling, then, punk?”

A bare moment's hesitation was all it took, and then in one swift movement Feuilly took a firm grip on Jehan's backside and lifted them bodily off their feet, sitting them firmly on the bench before crushing his lips to theirs. Jehan made a noise between a gasp and a whimper, half surprise, half desire, as they wrapped their long legs around his waist and pressed themself flush against him as his tongue claimed their mouth.

_They taste like beer and peppermint,_ Feuilly thought distantly, as his skin tingled whereever Jehan touched and their delicate, complex scent filled his lungs and sent his head spinning. He broke the kiss to bury his face in Jehan's neck, barely repressing a shiver of arousal when Jehan moaned at the feeling of his teeth scraping over their tendons, tightening their legs around him and wriggling delightedly in his grip when he sucked a bruise onto the delicate skin there. 

“Feuilly, Feuilly, oh fu-uck-”

A yelp from the doorway made them both start, Feuilly whipping around to see Courfeyrac backing out of the room, wide-eyed and grinning like Christmas had come early.

“Sorry! Carry on, you crazy kids, don't let me stop you!” and then turning back to face the lounge room, he cried, “Sorry guys, you're gonna have to wait for your beers; the kitchen is a sexual-tension-bomb-site until further notice.”

“Jesus Christ,” Feuilly muttered, hiding his face in Jehan's shoulder as Bahorel's unmistakable deafening cheer rang through the apartment. “Well that's embarassing.”

“You think it's embarrassing now?!” Jehan whined. “Have you ever tried to hide a hard-on in these jeans? It's impossible!!”

Feuilly burst out laughing, raising his head to press kisses to Jehan's flaming cheeks. “Oh my gods. Oh, gods, could you  _be_ more precious?”

“Shut up, literally shut up, you're not allowed to laugh at me, it's all _your_ fault,” they complained, punching his shoulder half-heartedly. 

Feuilly turned around, hooking his hands under Jehan's knees. “On my back, come on. They can't see your boner if I'm piggybacking you.”

 

  
“Three cheers for you fuckers!” Eponine hollered as Feuilly emerged from the kitchen with Jehan clinging to his back like a koala. “Hip-hip!”

“Hooray!” the room at large roared back, and carried on as the pair sank onto the couch next to Grantaire and Enjolras, blushing to the roots of their hair. Jehan crawled into Feuilly's lap, burying their face in his neck and curling into him like a cat. Next to them, Enjolras let slip a rare, affectionate chuckle, unconsiously leaning into Grantaire.

“Shit, that's actually really cute,” he muttered.

“It's about bloody time,” Grantaire grinned. “Oi, Feuilly-” he levelled a finger at the redhead. “- new house rules; no loud sex after midnight.”

Feuilly pulled a face as a ripple of laughter ran around the room; a ripple that grew when Jehan raised their head and quipped, “Bite me, R.”

“Not my job any more,” Grantaire replied, winking very obviously at the pair of them.

“Leave them alone,” Cosette scolded him from across the room, getting to her feet and rummaging in the cooler bag she'd left on the floor. “Jehan – Feuilly – I couldn't be happier for you both, you make a beautiful couple. Now, I did bring this-” she held a bottle of champagne aloft, grinning at the appreciative _ooh's_ from the few wine snobs in the room - “to toast Feuilly's successful move, but now we have some resolved pining to celebrate as well!” She popped the cork to enthusiastic cheers and waved the bottle victoriously. “To changes! May they bring a world of happiness, and always come when convenient. And by the way, you two; I'm sure there's going to be many children down the track, and I'll be offended if I'm not godmother to at _least_ one of them.” And she took a swig straight from the bottle to more raucous cheers.

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS REALLY FUN TO WRITE I REALLY HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY IT
> 
> I LOVE YOU ALL AND APPRECIATE YOUR PATIENCE WITH ERRATIC UPDATES SO MUCH AND AS ALWAYS I FUCKING ADORE FEEDBACK <3
> 
> wardrobespierre.tumblr.com - please feel free to come talk to me and stuff :3


	16. "Everything is... so very, very okay."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette receives some advice, and Eponine receives some wonderful news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GONNA JUST KEEP ON APOLOGISING FOR THE IRREGULAR UPDATES GUYS  
> Seriously I'm so sorry, I have no control over my life apparently so I really can't predict when these chapters are going to be reasonably regular again. Trying really, really hard to find more time to write, though, and feedback always encourages me a lot :3   
> Big love and thanks to my dear friend Luke who beta'd this chapter for me, and big love and thanks to everyone who has been sending me encouragement! <3 <3 <3  
> Trigger warning for nightmares, just to be safe <3

Grantaire woke early the next morning, strangely alert after only a bare few hours sleep. He'd dreamed he was on the fire escape with Enjolras again, but this time, when they looked up at the sky, the stars weren't dimmed by the city's glow; they blazed bright in their millions, like a child's tube of glitter spilled across inky craft paper. They'd looked down at the street below, and it too was changed; broken furniture was strewn through it, some of it piled together and blocking the alley.

Grantaire had looked at Enjolras, who surveyed the scene with steel in his gaze.

A sudden, oppressive realisation of both of their mortality prompted Grantaire to ask, “Are you afraid to die?”

Enjolras didn't move, didn't give any sign that he'd heard Grantaire at all. His face was cold and set as stone. Grantaire grabbed his shoulder.

“The world forgets heroes so quickly, Apollo. What if it's all for nothing? What if it's all a lie?”

Enjolras finally turned to him, slowly, his expression softening into a gentle smile as he met Grantaire's eyes. He raised his hand to clasp Grantaire's shoulder, a firm, reassuring weight, and all at once the slowly rusting metal beneath them gave way and they were falling –

The sickening rush of a sudden drop had left him gasping for breath as he sat up in bed. The thin grey light of dawn breaking trickled through his window, somehow eerie and grounding at the same time, as the distant noise of traffic soothed him. He scrubbed a hand over his face as last night's memories washed over him; _Enjolras singing – Enjolras on the balcony, the pain on his face still a knife in Grantaire's chest even now – a slender body in Grantaire's arms, the scent of ice and pepper – Jehan in Feuilly's lap, everyone cheering – the two of them slipping away to Feuilly's room only an hour later – Eponine leaving with Marius and Cosette, Marius with his arms around each of their shoulders and Cosette holding Eponine's hand behind his back as the three stumbled down the strairs, all looking like they hardly believed their luck - Enjolras hugging him goodbye just a second longer than strictly necessary before leaving with Combeferre and Courfeyrac._

Grantaire dragged himself out of bed and into last night's pants before stumbling out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, to find Jehan sitting cross-legged on the bench with their back to the door, sipping tea as they gazed out the window at the city's distant skyscrapers.

“Good morning, 'Aire,” they murmured, without turning around.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Grantaire wrapped his arms around their shoulders, pressing a kiss to their cheek. “You're up early.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Yes, but I don't have a cute redhead to cuddle,” Grantaire teased lightly, flicking the kettle on. “Everything okay?”

Jehan turned, dangling long legs over the bench as they faced Grantaire with a wan little smile. “Everything is... so much better than okay. Feuilly is wonderful, so wonderful, I just...” They broke off with a shake of their head.

“What? What is it?”

“This is too perfect,” Jehan sighed. “It's the first time in years I've hooked up with someone and thought, this feels _safe.”_

Grantaire grinned. “Good fuck, then?”

“I wouldn't know.” Jehan ducked their head. “We were both a little tipsy last night. He said we should wait.”

“Nice,” Grantaire nodded. “Definetly a keeper.”

“Exactly. That scares the _hell_ out of me.”

“Jehan Prouvaire, you pined and pined for that ginger prat and just when you get him where you want him, you panic,” Grantaire exclaimed. “You're being ridiculous.”

“You don't understand,” Jehan whined. “I'm very, very good at being a month-long fling or whatever. I have no idea if I'm any good at anything more long-term because my only serious relationship was with you and we were such good friends before that anyway-”

“By 'good at month-long flings' I assume you mean 'good at making people obsessed with you and ruining every fountain and secret picnic spot in the city for them forever by kissing them there and then dumping them',” Grantaire said, and then winced as Jehan's face darkened.

“'Aire, that was _so mean._ ”

“Yeah... I'm sorry. I didn't mean it how it sounded.”

“I guess it's true, though,” Jehan said mournfully. “I've been so fickle. Maybe I'm just not cut out for actual relationships.”

“Bullshit.” Grantaire shook his head, pouring his tea. “At least you're a functional member of society. At least you and Feuilly are in the same league – the fucking beautiful, non-train-wreck league.”

Jehan frowned. “As opposed to...?”

Grantaire chuckled darkly. “As opposed to me, fuckup extraordinare, thirsting after the absolute lord of positive societal contributions-”

“Shut up. Shut all the way up.” Jehan dropped their empty mug in the sink and slid of the bench, squaring their thin shoulders as they faced him. “Fuck's sake, Grantaire. Your _art.”_

“My _art,_ Jehan, isn't changing the world. Not like you all are. Not like just about every single person we know is. Face it, sweetheart.” Grantaire smiled sadly, taking Jehan's hands in both of his. “I will always be the token dropkick. I've made my peace with that.”

“You saved Eponine's life. You saved _my_ life. And how dare you suggest that art doesn't change the world? Art changes _people,_ and even if your paintings reach the heart of only one single person then they have done their job – because that person carries that new perspective, that fresh wisdom, and they use it to challenge themselves, challenge others, and they spread the message that your art carried to one after another after another. Don't underestimate art.” Jehan tugged their hand free of Grantaire's to wave a finger in his face. “I know of people that started volunteering in crisis shelters because of your last exhibition.” Grantaire scoffed, and they pinched his nose in retribution. “You think I'm lying? Are you doubting me, Grantaire? Me, your best friend of seven years?!”

“Ow – okay, okay, led be do – _”_

“Promise to stop putting yourself down.”

“Okay! Probise! Ow, Jehad, by _dose -”_

Jehan released him, smiling, and dipped their head to drop a commiserating kiss on Grantaire's abused nose before pulling him in for a hug. “I love you, 'Aire.”

“I love you too, you horrible demon-child,” Grantaire muttered, grinning despite himself.

 

 

 

 

In the cobbled laneway where cafes spilled onto the streets and passers-by navigated the obstacle-course of tables and chairs with practiced steps, Cosette and Musichetta sipped coffee with legs crossed at ankles and serious expressions on their faces.

“So, how did it happen? You know – you, Joly and Bossuet,” Cosette was asking, leaning over the table and twirling a loose curl around her finger.

“Well, Bossuet came to the bar one night just after Enjolras started the poetry thing,” she recalled, a tiny smile playing on her lips. “He hung around the bar a lot, cracking a lot of jokes and looking at me to see if I was laughing. Mostly I wasn't, because, well... I get hit on a lot, I try to discourage it. He was actually funny, though. But then _your_ boyfriend showed up, and Courfeyrac introduced them, and Bossuet got sort of, fake outraged and started spouting this story about how he'd lost his place in a class by pretending to be Marius at role call, because Marius hadn't showed up. And it was just the most ridiculous thing – like who does that? Who gives up their place in a class to save some stranger from losing attendance marks? I just lost my shit.” She giggled at the memory, shaking her head. “So when I could breathe again, he was looking at me like I was the first sunrise he'd ever seen. And I said 'A story like that deserves a pint. On the house.' And he said 'Only if you let me buy you one when you're off-duty.' And I said 'Don't push your luck mate' – but I winked.” She grinned proudly, taking a sip of her coffee before continuing. “The next week he came back and brought Joly – they were already dating. And look, I'll be honest; Bossuet was cute, I had already considered letting him make good on his offer – but seeing him with Joly, oh my god, like have you _seen_ my boyfriends, Cosette? Fuck me _dead._ ” She hummed happily as Cosette nodded her appreciation. “I mean, I strung them along for a bit, flirting back a little but not _too_ much, until I let them stay after close one night.” She smirked at Cosette over the rim of her cup. “You know that green velvet couch by the stage? Yeah. I fucked them on that couch.”

Cosette choked on her latte.

“I sort of assumed it would be just a one night stand, and I was kind of sad about it, because they were so _good –_ but then, after we all put our clothes on and stuff, Joly started stuttering about buying me dinner, and Bossuet said 'What my boyfriend means to say is that you're the most wonderful woman in the world, and would you be interested in going on a date with us sometime?' And I sort of stared blankly, like _what,_ and Joly blurted out 'We're looking for a third,' and oh, god, they were just too cute for words. I couldn't say no.”

“That's so sweet,” Cosette cooed.

“Honestly, it was all so intensely sexual for the first few months, I started to think I was in a permanent state of post-coital euphoria – and then I realized that's what being in love felt like.” Musichetta blushed slightly. “Anyway, why do you ask?”

“We-e-ell,” Cosette began, stirring her coffee unnecessarily. “You see, I think Marius and I want a third.”

“M-hm? Why?”

“Because we really, really like her,” Cosette replied, a little nervously.

“Oh! You have someone in mind?”

“Yes, well, we didn't actually realize we wanted a third until we realized we were both crazy about her,” she confessed.

“Ahh.” Musichetta nodded sagely. “That's probably a healthier way of going about it than seeking a third for the sake of a third. Joly and Bossuet just happened to hit the jackpot with me.” She threw Cosette a large, obvious wink. “So, it's Eponine, isn't it?”

“How did you know?” Cosette gasped.

“Please,” Musichetta snorted. “The only reason the entire clique doesn't know is that half of them are so wrapped up in their own barely-functional love lives they can't see an inch in front of their face. It's blatantly obvious, dear.”

Cosette sighed.

“And it's also blatantly obvious that she fancies you two back.” She added, looking hard at Cosette.

“I don't think so,” Cosette snorted. “I... I don't know. She likes Marius, I think, but any time either of us gets too affectionate towards her, she just bails.”

“That's Eponine all over, though,” Musichetta told her. “She doesn't quite know what to do with affection – but she'll learn.”

“So... should we like, ask her out? Or...”

“Just be totally honest.” Musichetta took a swig of her coffee with the air of a battle-hardened general swigging whiskey. “A girl like 'Ponine, you can't fuck about. If she gets it in her head that you two aren't being straight with her, if you faff around dropping hints and trying to be subtle, believe me, she will run like a scalded cat. If you're honest she might still freak out, but you have a better chance of her coming back when she's processed it, but I need you to really, really hear me, Cosette -” she leaned across the table. “Do not fuck with her head. She's had quite enough of that in her life already. Both now, and when you're dating; be honest, be transparent, never give her reason to think you're keeping something from her, or that she's one step behind. Tell your boyfriend, too. And the longer you wait to tell her, the harder it's going to be to bring it up.”

“I don't know when I'll next see her,” Cosette mused. “She's hanging out with Marius right now, but she has another overnight shift later so she'll probably be too tired to do anything tomorrow.”

“Doesn't matter,” Musichetta waved her words aside. “You three are practically attatched at the hip lately. I'm sure you'll see her soon enough.”

 

 

 

The following day was breaking as Eponine returned home from work, too bone-tired to appreciate the sight of hot air balloons floating above the city, bathed in the dawn's golden glow. It was her third night shift this week; she usually loved night shifts, they paid well and they were so quiet she could spend most of the time studying, but she'd been spending days with Cosette and Marius lately instead of catching up on sleep.

She barely remembered collapsing on her bed as soon as she got home but that was where she woke some hours later, still fully dressed including her trainers. Her phone was ringing from the kitchen bench where she'd dumped it; that must have been what woke her. She groaned miserably, clutching a pillow to her face before dragging herself up and out to fetch her phone, grumbling to herself the whole way.

“Who the fuck, what the fuck do you fuckers want from me... let me fucking sleep... Hello?”

“Hello Eponine, it's Jessica Harcourt from the Department of Human Services here, how are you?”

Eponine was awake in an instant. “Jess! Hey, I'm fine, just had a late shift at work last night so a bit on the tired side, how are you?”

“Very well thankyou, and I have some good news for you.”

“Yeah?”

“We've found your brother.”

Eponine nearly dropped her phone. “ _No shit?!”_

Jessica's professional demeanor slipped enough to let out a chuckle. “No shit. He's living with a family in a rural town, north-west. He's well, he's had some challenges at school but nothing that can't be dealt with, with proper support and mentoring. The family are happy to transfer guardianship to you, as soon as we get the paperwork checked – which shouldn't be hard, since we've had it ready to go for months.”

“Oh my god.” Eponine sank to the floor, tears welling up in her eyes faster than she could wipe them away. “Oh my god, Jess, bless you, holy fuck-”

“Are you alright, Eponine?”

“I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm just so _happy._ ”

“And I'm so happy for _you,_ ” Jessica told her sincerely. “I can't tell you what a relief it is to be able to reunite you two, after you've been looking so long-” she cleared her throat, perhaps to hide a sob of her own. “Well. We'll send someone out to re-check that your house is child-friendly tomorrow, and if all goes well, which it should – he'll be in your care by the end of next week. We'll do weekly checks for about a month and mentor you both through finding a school and getting him settled in.”

“Great,” Eponine gasped. “That's great. That's so great.”

“I'll give you some time to process it,” Jessica said gently. “And I'll call this afternoon to confirm a time for tomorrow. Okay?”

“Perfect. Thankyou. Thankyou _so much.”_

“You're welcome, Eponine.”

 

 

 

“Hey Cosette, do you have plans for today?”

“No, baby, I was just going to catch up on sewing,” Cosette called back from the bathroom, concentration unshakable as she traced a flawless black line over her eyelid.

“That was Eponine on the phone.”

Cosette whipped around. “What did she say?!”

“She wants to hang out.”

“I thought she worked right through last night, doesn't she need sleep?!”

“She said she had some amazing news and she's already marathon cleaned her flat; she needs us there so she has something else to let her positive energy out on.” Marius came to the door, leaning on the frame as he looked at Cosette adoringly. “My love, we decided the next time we hung out with Eponine would be the time we told her, but...”

“I know, I didn't think it would be this soon either,” Cosette murmured, frowning at her half-made-up reflection. “But Musichetta said the longer we wait to tell the truth the harder it will be.”

“What if we overwhelm her? She already has amazing news...”

“We just have to play it by ear,” she replied decisively, taking up her brush and starting on her other eye. “We'll know if it's the right time.”

 

Eponine threw open the door literally a second after Marius finished knocking, beaming at the two of them like she'd won the lottery and found the long-lost missing pair to her favorite sock all in one day. “You guys!! Thankyou for coming!!” she grabbed their hands and tugged them into the lounge room. “Sit, sit – I'll make tea.”

“I don't think I've ever seen you this full of energy, babe, and considering you've been up since at least noon yesterday, that's a tiny bit worrying,” Cosette said gently. “Is everything okay?”

Eponine paused on her way to the kitchen, turning back to them with her hands clasped in front of her face. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears even as a smile as bright as the sun itself lifted their corners. “Everything is... so very, very okay,” she breathed. “Everything is so wonderfully okay.”

“You're killing us here, 'Ponine,” Marius exclaimed. “What happened? What's the news?”

“Okay. Okay.” Eponine reapproached the couch and sat down in front of it, cross-legged, facing both of them. “You know how my brother is in foster care and I haven't been able to find him?”

“Yeah,” Marius and Cosette chorused.

“Well... they found him.”

“No fucking way,” Marius cried as Cosette squeaked and clapped her hands over her mouth. “'Ponine, that's amazing!!”

“I know! We already had the papers already to go, they're going to come and do one last check over my house tomorrow and he should be in my care officially as of next week!”

“Oh my god,” Cosette fluttered her hands in front of her face. “Oh my god, little Gavroche – it's been _so long-_ ”

“Eleven years,” Eponine confirmed. “He's twelve now. Oh god, I don't know what he's like – he doesn't know what _I'm_ like – but it doesn't matter, it doesn't, I'll love him to death no matter what – and he can meet you all, and, Cosette, you can teach him to sew, and Marius, you can teach him to write sappy poetry about his first crush -” she burst out laughing as tears poured down her cheeks afresh. 

“And you can teach him self-defense so no one will ever mess with him,” Marius interjected. “And so he can stand up for the kids that _do_ get messed with.”

Cosette slipped off the couch to fall to her knees next to Eponine, throwing her arms around her as she started to sob in earnest. “Oh 'Ponine, I'm so happy for you honey, so happy – we can have a welcome home party for him, it will be so great -” and she peppered her tear-streaked face with kisses until she started laughing again, before Eponine grabbed her face in both hands and planted a firm kiss on her lips.

The shocked silence resounded in the apartment as the two women stared at each other. It was impossible to tell which looked more surprised – though Marius, on the couch, looked ready to swoon.

“Um.” Eponine bit her lip. “I'm sorry, I... I don't know why I did that, that was, um, innappropriate-”

Cosette reached up to brush a stray curl from Eponine's face and cup her cheek in her palm. “Eponine, I... We have to tell you something.” She glanced at Marius, who was blushing to the roots of his hair. “Right, babe?”

“Uhm. Yeah. Um. Okay.” he took hold of her hand, taking a deep, steadying breath.

Eponine glanced nervously from one to the other. “What? What are you telling me?”

“'Ponine,” Marius began. “You know how you told me the other night that you... kind of have a crush on both me and Cosette?”

Eponine's eyes widened and Cosette's jaw dropped.

“ _Marius-!”_

“She _what?”_

Eponine tugged her hand free of his, hunching her shoulders as color flamed into her cheeks. “You _promised,_ arsehole.”

“I know, I know, but you need to hear me out,” Marius begged. “The thing is, me and Cosette have a crush on you too.”

“It's true,” Cosette said gently when Eponine's eyebrows twitched together. “I love being around you so much, 'Ponine. I love your attitude, I love your smile...” She stroked her thumb over Eponine's cheekbone. “I love your strength. You're the most incredible woman I know.”

“I should have told you months ago how much you meant to me. I should have... I should have realized how much I needed you.” Marius slipped off the couch to sit next to Eponine. “I've been an idiot, and I've taken you for granted.”

“What the fuck is happening right now?” Eponine cried, twitching away from Cosette's hand and shuffling back, away from both of them. She held up both her palms when Marius reached for her again. “No, no – just – guys. What the _fuck?”_

Cosette winced. “I'm sorry. It's cool, we don't expect anything, we just wanted to be honest -”

“Cosette, stop – listen, I need you two to explain to me very clearly what the hell is going on.”

“We fancy the fuck out of you,” Marius said, with uncharacteristic firmness in every syllable. “We would like to date you. If you are interested.”

Eponine looked from one to the other, her eyebrows climbing practically into her hairline.

“You know,” Cosette explained lamely. “Like Musichetta and...”

“...and Joly and Bossuet?” Eponine finished, the corner of her lips twitching into a little smile.

“Yes! Exactly!” Marius confirmed.

She stared at him for a moment, then burst into hysterical laughter. “You guys – oh my fucking god – you fucking nerds,” she gasped in between giggles.

Cosette and Marius looked at each other.

“So... is that a... no?” Cosette asked tentatively.

“Are you kidding me?!” Eponine cried. “Yes. Yes. It's a big, big fucking yes. Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker-”

Marius's face lit up like neon. “Oh my god. 'Ponine-” he grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss to it before grabbing Cosette's. “We're going to be _so great_ at this. We're going to communicate all the time, and me and Cosette can help you with Gavroche, and-”

“Not that we wouldn't anyway,” Cosette chimed in, pressing her free hand to Eponine's knee. “But now – you know, dates and... and romantic stuff, and... 'Ponine can I kiss you again please?” she asked in a rush.

Eponine's smile turned coy. “Yes, please-” and Cosette lunged forward to grab her hips and gather the slight woman into her lap, wrapping her arms firmly around her waist before pressing her lips to hers.

Eponine melted into her embrace with a happy sigh, winding her fingers through curls. Cosette sucked her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled gently, sending a shiver down Eponine's spine. _She's wearing flavored lipgloss and it's actually not awful. She tastes like sugar and she's kissing me and she's warm and soft and –_ her train of thought dissolved into a distant murmur of bliss when she felt Marius shuffle across the carpet to position himself at her back, gently tucking her hair over one shoulder and pressing soft kisses to the exposed skin on the back of her neck. One hand reached behind her to twine her fingers with his, tugging him close – she turned her head and caught his lips in a messy, urgent kiss as Cosette's lips trailed along her jawline to her throat.

Eponine drew a deep breath as they broke apart. “Holy fuck...”

“Are you alright, 'Ponine?” Marius murmured, nuzzling her hair with an expression of cat-like bliss.

“Uh-huh... I just...” Eponine smiled shakily at Cosette when the blonde raised her head from where she had been tracing the tattoos on Eponine's collarbones. “I'm a little... overwhelmed.”

“Want to stop?” Cosette asked gently.

“Not... not exactly, just...”

“We could just cuddle,” Marius purred. “And watch a movie. And get pizza.”

Eponine beamed. “Pontmercy, that's the most intelligent thing you've ever said.”

 

A little over an hour later, Eponine was snoring softly with her head on Cosette's lap and her legs curled around Marius, lulled to sleep by the familiar score of _The Lion King_ and Cosette's manicured fingertips massaging her scalp. 

“We did it,” Cosette murmured softly, half to herself. “We told her how we felt.”

Marius nodded, gazing down at the sleeping woman contentedly. “I'm proud of us.”

“Me too,” Cosette looked up at him with a glowing smile. “I love you, Marius.”

“I love you, Cosette.” He leaned over to press a kiss to Cosette's lips. “Should we put her to bed? She must be exhausted.”

“Yes – lets put her to bed, and then let's go shopping for a welcome home present for Gavroche!”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr as wardrobespierre - i'm all about making friends ^w^


	17. "How do y'do?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of Gavroche's arrival, Enjolras struggles with his own internal conflict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "TWO UPDATES IN ONE WEEK?? WHO SLIPPED THAT BOY CRACK??!" i hear y'all cry. WELL FRIENDS MY GUESS IS AS GOOD AS YOURS. I'm just enjoying this rare burst of productivity and free time while it lasts - PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK BC I WROTE THIS AT SOME STUPID HOUR OF THE NIGHT/MORNING AND HONESTLY YOUR FEEDBACK GIVES ME SUCH LIFE. SUCH. LIFE. Not that I particularly deserve it considering how ridiculously erratic I am with updating BUT I APPRECIATE IT SO MUCH. I DO. 
> 
> I gotta dedicate this one to my favorite foodie, my confidant and my loyal cheerleader, Luke. LOVE YOU BRUH. Also big love and thanks to my beta Bellamy, and to everyone sending me good vibes <3

Word spread like wildfire, and for the next week the group was swept up in the excitement of Gavroche's imminent arrival. Eponine arrived home from work one night to find a box packed full of books from Combeferre and Enjolras, ranging from _The Hobbit_ to illustrated encyclopedias to comics, on her doorstep. The next night she found a venus fly trap lovingly potted in an elephant-shaped planter, from Jehan. Courfeyrac begged and wheedled to be allowed to teach the boy to skate, and Feuilly solemnly handed her a bundle of CD's at Voices, insisting that they were 'integral to Gavroche's education'. Grantaire told her about six times that Gavroche would be more than welcome to hang out with him in his studio and that he'd keep an extra easel there for him, and Cosette found a denim vest just like Eponine's but smaller, and bemoaned the fact that she could hardly start adding patches to it until she'd at least met her girlfriend's little brother. 

 

Across the road from Enjolras's house was a park with a football oval, an extensive playground and a skate ramp; he also had a barbecue in his small back yard, despite having no idea how to use it. As his aunt wouldn't be home for another week, he volunteered his house as location for Gavroche's 'welcome home' party. Grantaire offered to cook and Jehan and Feuilly eagerly volunteered to help, so Wednesday morning, the day after Gavroche was reported to have arrived at Eponine's, saw the three of them piling into Grantaire's little car to fill the boot with groceries before arriving at Enjolras's at ten.

 

Enjolras's house was a long, narrow terrace, the kind built en-masse in the early 20th century when the city began its steady urban sprawl, fashioned in the 'Well, that's what we had in London' school of thought that resulted in aesthetically pleasing but desperately impractical streets and suburbs that sweltered under the oppressive southern sun. The long hallway led past both bedrooms and the bathroom to the open-plan lounge, dining and kitchen, which in turn led out to the tiny little backyard.

 

Grantaire immediately took over the kitchen to make desserts, leaving Feuilly and Jehan at the dining table with greengrocery bags and clear instructions to prepare a fruit salad. Enjolras finished tidying the last of the clutter in the lounge room and then drifted over to the kitchen, where he hovered looking uncharacteristically uncertain as he watched Grantaire at work.

“Can I help?” he asked, in between whirrs of the food processor.

Grantaire looked up with a little smile. “Maybe Jehan and Feuilly need a hand with the fruit salad?”

Enjolras shook his head, smirking as he glanced at the pair over his shoulder. “They might be feeding each other more strawberries than are actually ending up in the bowl, but they certainly don't need my help.”

Grantaire snorted. “Fuck's sake, of course they are. Alright; you can grease that cake pan for me.”

The blond continued to watch his efforts with the food processor with interest as he carefully smeared butter inside the pan, until Grantaire ducked his head, blushing furiously.

“Why are you looking at me? You're making me nervous.”

“Sorry.” Enjolras grinned, a slight blush rising to his own cheeks. “What are you doing? Why are you grinding up biscuits?”

“They're for the cheesecake base.”

“Cheesecake base is made of biscuits?”

“Yeah, and butter.” Grantaire looked up at Enjolras in surprise. “Have you... never had cheesecake?”

Enjolras shook his head. “Nope.”

“How have you lived to, what, twenty-one-”

“Twenty-two!”

“Twenty-two, that's even worse! How have you never had cheesecake?!”

Enjolras shrugged. “It's... it's bad for you, isn't it?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Enjolras flushed and looked down at his now thoroughly greased pan, rubbing the paper over it methodically.

Grantaire leaned closer and jostled Enjolras playfully with his elbow. “You're going to love this, Apollo. My cheesecake is fit for the gods.”

Enjolras glanced at him, smiling. “Whatever you say, R.”

“You'll see. Pass me the butter.”

 

Grantaire talked Enjolras through each step of the recipe as he carried it out, until it was time to add the several tubs of blueberries.

“Changed my mind,” Grantaire joked, gathering the punnets close to him. “These are for me.” He took a berry and threw it into the air, catching it in his mouth before grinning proudly at Enjolras. “Want one? Too bad! They're mine.”

Enjolras shook his head, smiling despite himself.

“Oh, alright,” Grantaire conceded. “Just because you're so cute. Open your mouth.”

“What?!”

Grantaire took aim with a berry. “Open your mouth or its gonna hit your nose!”

It hit his nose anyway, and so did the next one – he was just about to tell Grantaire to cut it out when the third landed neatly on his tongue. He was so surprised he almost didn't protest when Grantaire put his finger to his lips as he took aim through the doorway at Jehan, who was now draped over Feuilly as his tongue explored their teeth.

“Don't-!”

The blueberry bounced off Jehan's cheek. They froze for a moment mid-kiss before turning their head slowly, fixing death-stare worthy of a Disney villain on Grantaire. Grantaire hitched his features into an expression of false innocence and pointed at Enjolras.

“'Aire-”

“It wasn't me! It was him!”

“You _liar-_ ”

“'Aire, you are _dead,_ ” Jehan growled, jumping off a rather dazed Feuilly's lap and thundering down the hall after Grantaire when he bolted from the kitchen. 

“Fuck! Dead end!” Enjolras heard Grantaire howl, and he reached the hall just in time to see Jehan corner Grantaire by the front door, digging long fingers into his sides and tickling him mercilessly. Breathless with laughter, Grantaire crumpled to the floor, only to have Jehan straddle him, expertly tormenting his most vulnerable inches of skin as he squirmed helplessly.

“Mercy!” Grantaire whined.

“Not a chance!” Feuilly called, appearing by Enjolras's side. “I was enjoying that snog, arsehole. Give him hell, baby.” Jehan flashed their new boyfriend a grin that was all teeth and attacked Grantaire with renewed vigour.

Even as Enjolras raised a hand to stifle his laughter, something warm and pleasant and definitely not humor was blooming in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him when Grantaire caught Jehan's waist and lifted them over his shoulder as he stood up with a sudden burst of strength. He ran down the hall to dump them on the couch, whacking them once with a throw pillow for good measure before turning back to Feuilly and Enjolras, his grin victorious.

“That's what you get!” he shouted, jabbing his finger at Feuilly. “That's what you get when you make out before fruit salad is finished!”

“It was finished, you egg!” Jehan yelled from the couch, throwing the pillow at Grantaire's back. “We were totally finished!”

Grantaire looked at the bowl on the table in surprise; sure enough, it was full of neatly cut and colourful fruit. “Oh,” he said, rather stupidly.

“I'll be taking this one,” Feuilly told him loftily, stalking past him to scoop Jehan up in his arms. “To sit in the garden and be excessively affectionate in peace.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras. “I'm very, very surprised they finished,” he told him seriously.

Enjolras knew he ought to say something witty, to keep the mood light, to keep Grantaire smiling – even just shake his head and call him a fool with a smile and just enough affection – but his voice was stuck, he couldn't remember how to put words together and all he could focus on was the dishevelled state of Grantaire's hair and the sparkle in his eyes. He might have managed a grin, though perhaps not a very convincing one.

Grantaire ducked his head, obviously disconcerned by Enjolras's silence. “Well... I better finish that cheesecake, then.”

“Can I still watch?” Enjolras asked, and immediately cringed internally, praying that the note of desperation so obvious to his own ears was undetectable.

But Grantaire looked up at him with the warmest of smiles. “Of course, Apollo. Anytime.”

 

 

An hour passed while Grantaire finished the cheesecake and then taught Enjolras how to make chocolate mousse, while Jehan and Feuilly continued their marathon snog in the sunshine and Enjolras tried to will the butterflies out of his stomach whenever Grantaire put his hand over his own or locked eyes with him.  _Ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. Stop it, Enjolras. Stop- oh, fuck me, he has cocoa smeared across his nose._

“Come here, R, you're a hot mess,” he teased, reaching to brush the powder from his skin. Grantaire stilled under his hand, looking up at him with an unreadable expression and a glow in his eyes that made Enjolras want to move closer. He swallowed hard, determinedly wiping the smear away and stepping back with a smile. “There. Better.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the sound of the doorbell.

“That'll be Courf and 'Ferre!” Enjolras slipped out of the kitchen and into the hallway, privately thanking the gods for an excuse to be out of there, privately wishing like hell they could have arrived just ten minutes later.

Courfeyrac was positively bursting at the seams with energy – even more so than usual. He'd insisted on bringing his skateboard and complete collection of Harry Potter DVD's – “For when we've eaten shit at the skate ramp too many times.” He had also managed to convince Eponine to let him buy her little brother a skateboard of his own.

Combeferre rubbed his temples with his fingertips as Courfeyrac sailed up the hallway, arms full of salads and a cooler bag full of drinks, yelling enthusiastic greetings to Grantaire, Jehan and Feuilly.

“You don't understand what he's been like,” he sighed to Enjolras. “Ever since he found out about Gavroche he's been clucky as hell. I caught him looking up information for prospective foster parents last night.”

“Oh, that's... sweet?” Enjolras said uncertainly.

“It's not sweet!” Combeferre turned to him incredulously. “We're still at university and he's talking about becoming parents!”

Enjolras put his hands on his shoulders. “Combeferre, are you actually freaking out about something?!”

Combeferre scrubbed a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew. “I don't know... it's just that... I know it's a bad idea, we oughtn't even be contemplating that for several years, but... his face lights up, and he talks about taking a kid to museums and libraries and protest rallies... and I can  _feel_ myself getting caught up in it with him but that's  _mad._ At least  _one_ of us has to keep our head screwed on.”

Enjolras shrugged. “Well, I mean... it's just a dream, right? Just a fantasy. If you're not going to act on it, it doesn't hurt... right?”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “I suppose so...”

“I mean,” Enjolras continued. “You can want something, even if it's crazy, and impractical, and would never work – but if all you do is think about it then it's okay. If you don't try to make it happen then it's okay. You can't help wanting it, you just have to... not...” he trailed off when Combeferre looked hard at him.

“Are we _just_ talking about Courf wanting kids, Enjolras?”

Enjolras bit his lip. “I mean, hypothetically that could apply to... anything...”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “Do you need to talk about something, Enj?” he asked gently.

“Yeah, possibly,” Enjolras muttered, and grabbed Combeferre's sleeve to tug him into his bedroom.

When they were both settled cross-legged on Enjolras's bed, Combeferre took both the blond's hands in his and waited patiently for him to start talking. After a long moment and a deep sigh, Enjolras did.

“I've been cooking with R all morning.”

“That's nice,” Combeferre smiled. “Was it fun?”

“Yes.” He sighed again. “It was a lot of fun. 'Ferre, I'm really sorry I didn't tell you earlier, but something sort of happened at Feuilly and R's party last week.”

Combeferre frowned, but said nothing.

“My mother called me.”

Combeferre swore under his breath and took off his glasses. “And you answered, didn't you?”

Enjolras nodded, avoiding Combeferre's eyes. “I haven't answered since.”

“Well, that's good. Hey, it's alright, Enj. I'm not angry.” He put a hand under Enjolras's chin and lifted his face gently, until his bright blue eyes met Combeferre's. He smiled reassuringly. “I know how much you want to reconnect with your mum. I understand.”

Enjolras gave a watery smile back. “Well... R found me on the fire escape, talking to her. She was being pretty awful, you know how she is. R told me to hang up.” Combeferre's expression darkened and Enjolras hastily clarified; “Not as if he was making me. He said if I told him to go, he'd go. It was sort of like when you do it, although you only do it when it's really, _really_ bad.”

“Was it really, _really_ bad?”

“No. On a scale from one to verbally hacking me to pieces, it was about a six.”

“But you hung up.”

“I hung up.”

“And then?”

“And then... he hugged me,” Enjolras sighed. “And rolled me a cigarette. And we just... talked. It was nice.”

“Okay,” Combeferre nodded encouragingly.

“And this all happened after I found him in the kitchen and convinced him not to have another beer.”

Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “And he listened?”

“Well, yeah.”

“It would sound to me like you two are actually becoming quite good friends,” Combeferre mused with a little smile. “Wouldn't you say?”

“I... I guess we are.”

“I think it's wonderful, Enj. You two got off on the wrong foot, certainly, but I think you could both bring a lot to each other's lives, in terms of perspective and helping each other grow.”

“That's... that's not all, 'Ferre,” Enjolras mumbled, colour blooming in his cheeks.

A slow smile spread across Combeferre's face. “ _Oh,_ wow. Oh Enjolras.” He grabbed the blond's hands again. “Brother, I am so, _so_ happy for you.”

“ _Happy?!_ ” Enjolras looked at him, horrified. “It's a fucking disaster!”

“Why would it be a disaster?”

“Because... because it's ridiculous and it would never work,” Enjolras fumed. “Because he doesn't believe in anything. Because he's an alcoholic and because he's so _rude_ and...” he trailed off, chewing his lower lip.

“Since he apologised to you, has he said anything rude?”

“No,” Enjolras admitted.

Combeferre put his glasses back on and looked hard at Enjolras over the rims. “Would you, in fact, say that he's been the very _opposite_ of rude?”

Enjolras sighed. “Yes, but-”

“Is it possible, Enjolras, that you are being unreasonable?” Combeferre asked him seriously.

Enjolras pouted slightly and said nothing. Combeferre sighed.

“Listen, dear, you're going to do what you think is right, and I'm not here to tell you that you should act on your feelings if you don't want to. I know you're afraid, and I'm not saying that you're wrong to be. But the Enjolras I've been proud to know these past three years would never let fear stand in the way of what he wants.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Enjolras's forehead like a benediction, before standing up and walking towards the door.

“'Ferre,” Enjolras called quickly. “Wait.” Combeferre hesitated, looking back with a warm smile.

“Mm?”

“I've never even been on a date before,” he said, and flushed it came out like a whine.

Combeferre chuckled. “It's not exactly difficult, not if you're friends. It's just like going out with me or Courfeyrac or Jehan – except you might get a kiss at the end of it.”

“Well, you never know, with Prouvaire,” Enjolras mumbled. Combeferre laughed out loud at that.

“Come on, Enj, we're being terribly anti-social.”

 

Enjolras would have doubted anyone had noticed they were gone at all – Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Grantaire were all arguing jovially over the best way to make booze-free punch while Jehan quietly mixed lemonade and fruit juice in a huge pitcher behind them – but Grantaire looked up the moment they entered the kitchen, his smirk softening to a genuine smile when he met Enjolras's eyes.

“Combeferre,” he greeted the taller man, stepping around Feuilly to clasp his hand and draw him into a half-hug, clapping him enthusiastically on the back. “Good to see you, man.”

“Hello, R, you're looking well,” Combeferre said warmly. “So are you, Feuilly.” He embraced the grinning redhead. “You can feel the high spirits in this house a mile down the road, I swear.”

Grantaire puffed his chest slightly. “Well, we're all about to become uncles, of sorts. And, uhm...” he looked around at Jehan. “Not-uncles...?”

“Ommer,” Jehan corrected, smiling kindly at Grantaire. “The gender-neutral term for aunt or uncle is 'ommer'.”

“Ommer Jehan,” laughed Courfeyrac, putting his arm around their shoulders. “I like it. Has a nice ring.”

Punch made, Jehan, Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Combeferre migrated to the lounge room, sharing the couch while Grantaire started cutting up vegetables. Torn, Enjolras leaned in the doorway, half watching Grantaire work even as he joined in their conversation.

Then came a knock at the door.

“It's Eponine and Gavroche,” Jehan gasped.

“How do you-”

“It is! I know it is. Ohmygods.” Jehan bounced on Feuilly's lap. “Go open it, Enj!”

 

Enjolras wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting when he opened the door – perhaps the sort of shy, sad-eyed waif shown in Salvation Army advertisements – but certainly not the young man standing before a beaming Eponine, who looked boldly up at him from under a mop of dark hair even curlier than Grantaire's and grinned brightly as he stuck out a hand to shake.

“How do y'do?”

“Hello,” Enjolras smiled back as he shook the offered hand, charmed even as he was taken aback by the lad's confidence and firm grip. “You must be Gavroche.”

“You must be Enjolras.”

“I've told him all about you,” Eponine explained, smiling proudly down at her little brother as Enjolras stood aside to let him into the hallway. “I've told him about everyone.”

Enjolras meant to ask exactly what that meant but Gavroche was already marching up the hall like a man on a mission, making a beeline for where Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Jehan and Feuilly were sharing the couch. Courfeyrac sat bolt upright when he saw the boy coming, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree.

“Hallo! You must be Gavroche. I'm-”

Gavroche held up a hand to stop him. “Wait! Don't tell me. You're Courfeyrac, you're Combeferre, you're Jehan, and you're Feuilly. Right?” He pointed to each one of them as he named them, beaming with pride as they looked at one another in surprise. “'Ponine showed me photos of all of you before we came.”

“Dude!” Courfeyrac held his hand up for a high-five, which Gavroche enthusiastically delivered before plonking himself on the couch between the two couples, looking between them with friendly curiousity.

“'Ponine said you're protestors.”

“Activists,” Combeferre corrected, as Courfeyrac puffed his chest out with pride.

Gavroche leaned closer to them, lowering his voice consiprationally. “Have you ever punched a cop?”

“Oh my god,” Combeferre sighed, shaking his head with an air of long-suffering amusement while Courfeyrac and Jehan burst out laughing. “No, dear, none of us have ever punched a cop.”

“Come on, you can tell me!” He leaned towards Jehan, jostling them with his elbow. “I bet _you_ have. It's always the hippies that get rowdiest,” he added sagely.

“Who told you that?” Jehan asked, still giggling.

“No one, I just made it up,” he replied, grinning. “Bet it's true though.”

“I'd punch a cop if they deserved it,” Jehan conceded. “But luckily I've never been in the situation where I had to.”

“Not yet,” Courfeyrac added, sobering slightly and addressing Gavroche. “But you get in an awful lot of trouble for punching a cop, you know, kiddo. I wouldn't recommend it.”

“ _I'd_ punch a cop,” Gavroche said decidedly. “If he was arresting one of my friends. I'd punch him right in his pig snout.”

“Who taught him to talk like that?” Combeferre asked the world at large with an air of disbelieving horror. “Look here, Gavroche, you have to be careful. Don't punch cops. If you do, you'll have yourself and your sister in a world of trouble. Just avoid them, okay?”

Gavroche smiled at him with an air of paternal affection out of place on such a young face. “Don't you worry about me, mister. I know what I'm about.”

“Oh my gods, he's priceless,” chuckled Feuilly when Gavroche gave Combeferre's arm a comforting pat.

“Bahorel is going to love him,” Jehan agreed. Gavroche looked around with a renewed sparkle in his eye.

“Bahorel! Where is he?”

“Hasn't arrived yet, buddy,” Courfeyrac told him. “But he'll come. He's bringing Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta.”

“What about Grantaire?”

“I'm here!” Grantaire called from the kitchen, finally looking up from the pile of veggie kebabs he was working on. “Who's that punk, then?” he asked, indicating Gavroche with a twinkle of mirth in his eye.

“I'm Gavroche!” the lad cried, marching into the kitchen and looking Grantaire up and down.

“Huh.” Grantaire put his head on one side. “I thought you'd be taller.”

“I thought you'd be funnier,” Gavroche quipped without missing a beat.

“Ooh, need some water for that burn, son?” Courfeyrac yelled as a wide grin burst across Grantaire's face.

“Well played, kid, well played,” he said, holding out a fist for Gavroche to bump. Gavroche grinned back.

“What y'making?”

“Kebabs.”

Gavroche's face lit up as he approached the bench. “Is that _capsicum?_ ”

“Yeah, do you like – _oi!”_ he exclaimed as Gavroche grabbed a handful of chunks waiting to be threaded onto skewers and scuttled out of the kitchen.

“Gavroche!” Eponine scolded when he put his hands behind his back and feigned innocence. “That's so rude, put them back.”

“It's okay, 'Ponine,” Grantaire chuckled, leaning on the doorframe. “We have more than enough capsicum.” He winked at Gavroche, who dropped the butter-wouldn't-melt expression immediately and popped a piece in his mouth.

“Anybody want some capsicum?” he asked, offering his handful around graciously. Eponine shook her head, smiling despite herself as Gavroche settled on the couch to share his capsicum with Jehan. Enjolras drifted over to her.

“He's a character, isn't he?”

“He's a little devil,” she grinned.

Enjolras snorted. “I meant, he's clever, and very charming. You must be really proud.”

“Couldn't be more so,” Eponine agreed, grinning up at him. “He's had a rough time; the family he was living with had six foster kids, and most were far more demanding than him. He was mostly left to his own devices. But he'll never be short of attention now, not with you lot, and Marius and Cosette...” she blushed slightly.

“Oh, yeah, by the way,” Enjolras said, the corner of his lip quirking in a knowing smile. “I heard a rumor...”

“Yes, I'm dating them,” Eponine confirmed. “As of a week ago.”

“Congratulations. How's that going?”

Eponine put her head on one side. “My god, is Enjolras showing an interest in someone's love-life? Who are you, and what have you done with the ice-king?”

“That's not fair,” Enjolras protested. “I show interest in Courfeyrac and Combeferre's.”

“That's because you have to, they're your best friends,” she snorted. “But it is going well, thankyou. I er, I met Cosette's dad the other night.”

“How did that go?”

“Well... I'd met him before, you see.” She hesitated, then lowered her voice. “He was the one that had us put in foster care.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yeah. So... I knew who he was, and he recognised me like halfway though dinner. He asked how I'd been, and if I'd been okay, and then after I told him he got up and came and gave me this huge hug, and then he excused himself because he was crying a bit.” Eponine huffed a breath. “Cosette checked on him, and he was okay. Apparently he felt awful that he hadn't taken all four of us when he took Cosette, but... that would have been a mess. And, you know, it might be awkward now, being attracted to someone you'd been raised with as sisters...” she pulled a face. “The dude did the best thing he could have for us. I hope he gets less weird around me.”

Enjolras nodded. “Yeah, that's... that's heavy. Where are Marius and Cosette?”

“They were ten minutes away about five minutes ago,” she said, indicating her phone. “And Cosette drives like a maniac, so I'd say any minute.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D I D Y O U L I K E I T F R I E N D S  
> BC I LOVED WRITING IT  
> I AM SO EXCITED TO BE WRITING GAVROCHE FOR REAL, I REALLY WANT TO HEAR FROM YOU IF YOU HAVE FEEDBACK ABOUT GAVROCHE'S CHARACTER  
> OR ANY FEEDBACK AT ALL REALLY  
> wardrobespierre.tumblr.com  
> HOPE YOU'RE HAVING A WONDERFUL WEEK


	18. A 'deep and meaningful' over dishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavroche gets a surprise, and Grantaire learns a little more about Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of feel like I'm showing up on the doorstep of an old best friend's house with flowers, years after we stopped hanging out. Oh lordy. My dear beautiful readers, I know I've done you wrong by chucking a hiatus for months and months with no indication of when to expect updates - please accept this chapter with my most sincere apologies, and also forgive me preemptively for doing the same thing all over again probably, after this. I am so much more time-poor now than when I started this monster. I wish I could promise a return to weekly updates, I wish I wish I wish I could find the time to write that much, but I can't - I do promise to do what I can, although that's not always a lot!

Sure enough, the doorbell rang only a couple of minutes later, and Gavroche thundered down the hall to throw the front door open before Enjolras could. For a long moment, he stared at Marius and Cosette on the doorstep, and they stared back. Then Cosette held out her hand to shake.  
“You wouldn't remember me,” she said, “But last time I saw you, you were a tiny baby. My god, look at you now!”  
A wide grin split Gavroche's face and he shook her hand enthusiastically. “Nope, I don't remember you,” he said cheerfully. “But 'Ponine told me about you. It's Cosette, right? And you sew.”  
“That's right. Maybe I can sew something for you sometime.”  
“Maybe you can teach me?” he suggested.  
Cosette beamed. “Of course, sweetheart. Oh – this is Marius.”  
Gavroche shook Marius's hand, looking up at him with just a hint of skepticism. “My sister said you're a huge dork but also the most wonderful man she's ever met.”  
Marius blushed to the roots of his hair. “Did she really?!”  
Gavroche chuckled. “Could fry an egg on his face,” he said to Cosette.  
“What are you doing out there, Gav?” Eponine yelled from the other end of the hallway. “Let them in!”  
“Oh, right-” Gavroche grabbed each of their hands. “Come on! You're missing the party.” And he tugged them inside.  
Eponine watched them enter with a blissful smile lighting her features.  
“You're glowing, kitten,” Cosette murmured when they reached her, cupping her cheek with her free hand and planting a kiss on her lips.  
“Like a christmas tree,” Marius agreed, swooping in to kiss her the second Cosette pulled back.  
“Gross,” Gavroche complained, dropping their hands and ducking out from between them. He made his way towards the couch, but stopped dead when he saw Jehan and Feuilly nuzzling their noses together and Combeferre pressing kisses to the top of Courfeyrac's head. “Double gross!”  
“Hey, Gavroche,” Enjolras called from over by the stereo. “Come and help me choose some music.”  
Gavroche bounded over. “You got any Taylor Swift?”  
Enjolras looked at him in surprise. “You like Taylor Swift?!”  
Gavroche folded his arms across his chest. “You got a problem with that?”  
Enjolras bit down on a smile. “Not at all.”

By the time Bahorel arrived with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, Grantaire had thrown open the double doors to the backyard and taken over the barbeque, and Gavroche and Courfeyrac were dancing enthu-siastically together in front of the stereo. They didn't even hear the knock at the door or notice the new arrivals, until Bahorel burst into the room and swept Eponine up in a hug.  
“Hey, Toughnut!”  
She hugged him back, chuckling and beckoning Gavroche over when he paused his dancing to look over at them curiously.  
“Gavroche, this is Bahorel. Bahorel, this is my little brother.”  
Bahorel released Eponine as Gavroche approached, grinning down at him. “Hey little buddy!”  
“I'm not little,” Gavroche deadpanned. “You're just fucking enormous.”  
“Oi, don't fuckin' swear!” Eponine yelped as Bahorel roared with laugher. “I mean – shit.”  
“Give it up, babe,” Musichetta chuckled, ruffling Eponine's hair as she joined them. “Hello, Gavroche! I'm Musichetta.”  
“You run the bar, right?” Gavroche asked, his eyes widening with excitement as he shook her hand. “Can I have a job?”  
“Oh my god,” Eponine mumbled, hiding her face in her hands.  
Musichetta's eyes sparkled. “You've got a few years growing to do before you can reach the beer fonts, mate, but I'll make you a deal; when that big ginger dope over there quits to get married and have ba-bies or whatever then you can have his job.” She winked at Feuilly while Gavroche nodded consideringly. “These are my boyfriends, Joly and Bossuet.”  
Gavroche shook each of their hands enthusiastically, looking at the top of Bossuet's head in fascination. “Can I touch your head, please?” he asked politely. Bossuet grinned and knelt down obligingly, letting Gavroche run his hands over the smooth skin there. “Cool,” the lad murmured, and looked up at his sis-ter. “'Ponine, can I shave my head?”  
“If you still want to a week from now, then you can,” she replied firmly while Bossuet snorted with laugh-ter and Joly rolled his eyes.  
“Food’s ready!” Grantaire bellowed, and Gavroche immediately dashed outside, completely forgetting to grab an empty plate in his eagerness.  
Enjolras’s dining table was too small for the entire group to sit at; Enjolras insisted that Gavroche, Eponine, Cosette and Marius took seats, and Bahorel and Musichetta took the remaining two when eve-ryone else politely refused in favor of sitting on the floor or squeezed onto the couch. Grantaire carried a cushion over to where Enjolras was sitting on the rug, insisting he take it before sitting down next to him.   
“This is delicious, R,” Enjolras told him, in between mouthfuls. “You’re an excellent cook.”  
Grantaire grinned, looking down at his plate self-consciously. “Uh. Thanks, Enj.”  
“Did you just accept a compliment without a sarcastic comment?” Enjolras teased. “It’s a Christmas mir-acle.”   
“Shut up,” Grantaire snorted. “I’m not a complete arsehole.”  
“I agree,” Enjolras hummed, and flashed a surprisingly shy smile at him.   
The group made short work of lunch, and then of dessert – true to his word, Grantaire’s cheesecake was magnificent, and it was quickly demolished alongside the fruit salad and chocolate mousse. Several minutes of satisfied silence broken by lazy conversation followed, all too full to move, until Courfeyrac sat up suddenly.  
“Hey Gavroche, I have something for you!”  
Gavroche's eyes lit up when Courfeyrac reached behind the couch and pulled out a skateboard, a bold pattern of red, white and blue on it's base. Courfeyrac set it on the ground and rolled it across the floor-boards to Gavroche.  
“A skateboard?” Gavroche asked, looking down at the board in bewilderment, his voice suddenly very small. Courfeyrac's smile wavered just slightly.  
“If you don't like it, we can take it back and swap it for something else -” he began, valiantly keeping the disappointment out of his voice, but broke off when Gavroche looked up at him with tears sparkling in his eyes.  
“Is it really for me?”  
“Yeah, little bro,” said Courfeyrac gently, and pulled out the red helmet, gloves and knee-pads he'd bought to go with it. “These, too.”  
Gavroche stared, and then snatched up the skateboard and launched himself across the room and into Courfeyrac's arms, barely missing bruising the man's ribs with the board as he threw his free arm around his neck. “I've always wanted a skateboard,” he mumbled into Courfeyrac's shoulder.  
Courfeyrac chuckled, hugging the boy tightly. “I'm glad you like it, buddy.” He tactfully pretended not to hear the sniffle that Gav stifled in his sweater. “Hey... there's a skate ramp across the road. You wanna take the board on a test drive?”  
Gavroche raised his face, frowning. “I don't know how.”  
“I'll show you,” Courfeyrac reassured him. “I brought my board so I could.”  
Gavroche scrambled to his feet. “Let’s go!”   
“Let’s all go,” Eponine suggested, to cries of approval from the group at large. 

Enjolras was at the door, close behind Combeferre when he realized Grantaire hadn’t followed the group outside and across the road to the park. “I’ll be over in a bit,” he told his friend, before ducking back down the hall. “R?”  
“In here,” Grantaire called from the kitchen. Enjolras rounded the corner to see Grantaire filling the sink with suds and steaming water.   
“What are you doing?”  
“What does it look like? I’m washing up,” Grantaire replied.  
“No, no no – you cooked. You’re exempt from washing up, you did the cooking.”  
“I don’t mind doing it, Apollo,” he grinned.   
Enjolras hesitated for a moment, and then gave in. “At least let me help.”   
“Okay,” Grantaire said consideringly. “I don’t know where anything goes – could you dry up and put away?”  
“Sure.”   
They worked together in silence for a few minutes, Enjolras chewing his lip as the tension stretched and Grantaire kept glancing at him through his lashes. Then;  
“Hey, Enjolras.”  
“Yeah, R?”  
“Can I ask a weird question?”   
“I guess so.”  
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”  
“I know, R.”  
“And I don’t want to make you uncomfortable-”  
“Just ask, Grantaire.”  
Grantaire turned to face him, his expression apprehensive. “What’s it like being trans?”  
Enjolras cast him a sidelong glance as he kept drying. “Have you never asked Jehan that question?”  
“Yes, but – Jehan is non-binary. I imagine their experiences are different to yours.”  
“Every trans person’s experience is different, R.”  
“You know what I mean.” Grantaire sighed. “You don’t have to answer, I’m just… I really want to learn.”  
Enjolras smiled slightly. “Okay. So what exactly do you want to know?”  
“Did you always know you were a boy?”  
“Did I know I was a boy when I spent my formative years in gowns, heels and inch-thick makeup?” En-jolras snorted. “God, no. There’s a difference between wanting to be a boy and thinking it’s something you can’t have, and realizing that you were always meant to be no matter how hard the world tries to stop you.”  
Grantaire frowned. “Gowns and heels? You?”   
Enjolras nodded, smiling wryly. “I did beauty pageants.”  
Grantaire stared at him as that information sunk in. “Oh… Ergh.”  
“Right?” Enjolras chuckled.  
“I bet you won heaps, though.”  
Enjolras grimaced. “Beauty pageants are a disgusting, patriarchal practise and neither winning nor partic-ipating is any kind of achievement.”  
“I don’t know,” Grantaire mused. “I think the fact that you survived is an achievement.”   
“Thanks,” the blond murmured.  
“How did it feel? When you realised?”  
Enjolras hesitated. “Like… the most incredible, all-encompassing feeling of relief, for about half a day, before the magnitude of transitioning actually hit me. I kind of fluctuated between determination and crip-pling self-doubt for about three months.”  
“Why self-doubt?”  
“Well… it’s daunting. First there’s trying to understand and come to terms with your own identity. Then there’s ‘coming out’, and that’s an incredibly drawn-out process that can take years. You ‘come out’ to friends, to family, to classmates and collegues-” Enjolras counted them on his fingers. “You have to con-sider your safety, you have to take into account the best way to explain it, you have to be ready to sup-port them – this is what no one seems to realise, R. Most of the time, your friends and family don’t ‘sup-port’ you through your transition, at least not straight away; you support them, until they’ve processed it and actually have the ability to support you. Is that the way it should be? Probably not, but until being transgender isn’t taboo, that’s the way it is.”  
Grantaire nodded his understanding, staying silent until Enjolras continued.  
“And then there’s acknowledging your dysphoria and finding out how to manage it. For a lot of people that’s really tied into the way you express yourself, so you have to get a new wardrobe. You have to budget for that new wardrobe. You have to emotionally prepare yourself to go shopping for that new wardrobe. You have to experiment a lot to find a style that makes you feel like you and sometimes it can be frustrating and dysphoria-inducing and let me tell you that sobbing uncontrollably in a thrift store change room is an experience we can all do without.  
“Then you have to find a good doctor. Then you have to talk that doctor into referring you to a good psy-chiatrist and then you have to jump through hoops so that good psychiatrist will see you and then you wait for months for an appointment, and then you spend a lot of time and energy and money talking that psychiatrist into allowing you the treatment you need. And then you budget for hormones. And then you save for surgery. And this is a process of several years and meanwhile you’re hating the skin that you’re in and you’re desperately trying to present right so you can avoid the distress of being constantly mis-gendered. And you’re dealing with the pain of the people who reject you. And you’re being constantly re-minded how unsafe you are as a trans person. And all of that is on top of the standard bullshit that comes with being 20-something.” Enjolras paused for breath. “So… yeah. Crippling self-doubt because I’d be an idiot to think it was something I could do easily.”  
“For what it’s worth,” Grantaire offered, “I thought you were… I mean, I’d never have guessed you were trans.”  
“I know.” Enjolras shot him a little smile. “And I actually had to work really hard to effectively present as male, so I appreciate you saying that.”   
“Surely it’s not that difficult,” Grantaire snorted.  
“I knew how to dance choreographed routines in heels, let alone walk in them, before I hit high school. I wasn’t allowed to leave the house without makeup after I turned fourteen. That kind of bullshit takes a lot of un-learning, and I had no queer role models in my life until I went to university. So, yeah. I found it dif-ficult.”   
Grantaire bit his lip. “I’m sorry I said that, that was a fucking stupid thing to say.”   
“Don’t worry about it, R,” Enjolras said gently. “Of course you don’t realise how difficult it is, you haven’t experienced it.”   
Grantaire carefully put the last dish on the drying rack, and looked at Enjolras in silence for a moment. Then; “Thanks, Apollo,” he said sincerely.  
“What for?”  
“For explaining your experiences to me. For giving me the time of day at all. And… for making it through everything. This city wouldn’t be the same without you.” He ducked his head, his hand creeping up to cover his lips as though to catch unspoken words before they left them.   
Enjolras blushed. “I don’t believe I deserve thanks for any of that, but… you’re welcome. And thank you.”  
“For what?”  
“For listening.” Enjolras shot Grantaire a soft smile before turning away to put the last plate in the cup-board. “Come on, lets go find the others.”

In the park across the road, Gavroche was laughing as he clung to Courfeyrac’s hand and let him pull him around on his skateboard, while Jehan and Feuilly watched from a bough of the old oak tree that stood nearby. Eponine, Cosette and Marius had formed a little cuddle pile at the roots of the tree, and Bahorel and Joly appeared to be racing each other across the football field with Bossuet and Musichetta clinging to their backs. Combeferre sat by the skate ramp, watching Courfeyrac with a soft smile playing on his lips. He jumped slightly when Enjolras sat down heavily next to him.   
“You took a while,” he said mildly.  
“Grantaire and I did the dishes,” Enjolras replied.   
“Ah.” Combeferre smiled.   
“And… we talked.”  
“Oh?”  
“He was just… curious. About my transition.” Combeferre frowned slightly and Enjolras hastened to reas-sure him. “All very, very respectful, though.”   
“Good.” Combeferre nodded approvingly.  
“’Ferre… how did you ask Courfeyrac out?”  
“Didn’t I ever tell you?”  
“You might have, but I probably didn’t listen,” Enjolras said regretfully. “Sorry.”   
Combeferre chuckled. “Well… I didn’t exactly ask him out. I don’t know if you remember, but the three of us were meant to go the beach, but you couldn’t come, you had to study. So Courf and I went. I warned him that there was going to be a storm, and that we should go the next day instead, but he wouldn’t lis-ten. We ended up stuck in his ute while it bucketed down outside, so we talked. And talked, and talked, for hours until it got dark and we’d barely noticed. And then he went to kiss me and I stopped him. I said ‘Courfeyrac, I’ve been in love with you for months. Don’t kiss me if it’s just a kiss.’ And he stared at me for a minute, and then he practically jumped on my lap and kissed me within an inch of my life.” Combeferre took off his glasses and polished them with his t-shirt as a rare blush rose to his cheeks. “Erm. Well. We were pretty inseperable after that night.”  
“You just talked, and then he kissed you,” Enjolras said thoughtfully, watching Grantaire examine the graffiti on the side of the skate ramp.   
“Doesn’t usually work like that,” Combeferre said gently, following his gaze.   
“I know,” Enjolras said, more loudly than necessary. “I was just curious.”  
Combeferre chuckled. “Okay, Enjolras.”   
Gavroche was pushing the skateboard along by himself now, wobbling only slightly. He sped up, encour-aged by Courfeyrac’s cheers, and shouted, “’Ponine! Look at me!!”   
Eponine looked up just in time to see him lose his balance, wave his arms wildly as the board slipped from under him, and hit the ground hard on his backside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback still gives me so much life! I've been having such a difficult time with writing this year - now that I'm finally back on the horse, comments (or messages to my tumblr, wardrobespierre.tumblr.com) would be so very encouraging. I really, really hope you guys liked that chapter, and I really really hope I can get the next one to you in a reasonable time frame! Big love xxxxxxx


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